


However Improbable

by kcscribbler



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 88,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25206091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcscribbler/pseuds/kcscribbler
Summary: "An ancestor of mine maintained that if you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."- Captain Spock, ST:VI; original quote Sherlock Holmes, The Sign of Four. Two universes, two worlds, one link threatening to destroy them both.Fandom fusion, written over a decade ago as a NaNoWriMo exercise.
Comments: 40
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are in the public domain, originally created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, etc., accept no substitutes including the RDJ movies and S4 of _Sherlock_ that killed the fandom, _**fight me.**_
> 
> Star Trek and all its derivatives belong to Paramount and Gene Roddenberry. Anything you recognize from screen doesn’t belong to me.
> 
>  **A/N:** While you needn’t necessarily be a bookverse Holmesian to understand this, it will help, as I’m not in the habit of writing Trek fic in the first person POV and it will likely be jarring to read those alternating chapters written in that format if you're not accustomed to it. 
> 
> I’d categorize this more as a SH fic than a TOS fic (hence the British English you’ll see within); that’s where I got my start in fanfic, and this was one of my earliest transitions into TOS. It probably shows, but hopefully it's still enjoyable to the few people out there who happen to love both of these fandoms as I do.

**_Chapter One_ **

_221B Baker Street, London, England_

_June 2, 1894_

Sherlock Holmes and I were seated upon either side of a small fire that very wet spring morning in 1894, silently enjoying the comforts of the glowing coals to drive back the damp that wailed at the windows and drummed upon the rooftop. Little did either of us know that the peace of that particularly innocuous morning was soon to be shattered, along with the entire security of the world we had grown to know and love.

However, the catalyst that would hurl the both of us into a chasm of uncertainty and incredulity within the hour was at that moment not even a suspicion in our minds, content as we were to continue in rebuilding and repairing a friendship that had lain dormant for nearly three years, due to a catastrophic deception on my friend's part. I have given him my word as a gentleman and a friend to not bring up into conversation his decisions, and so shall I refuse to do. Nonetheless, it is common knowledge that the events following his reappearance in my life were, to say the least, a strain upon my health and state of mind.

It was then, therefore, that I accepted his invitation to spend some time in Baker Street rather than my own empty, eerily solitary dwelling, whilst my not inconsiderable medical practice was in the process of being put upon the purchasing market. It was a mutual decision, and one that I recognized the value of; were we to pick up where we left off three years previously, we should need to re-learn how to live with one another (ideally without unnecessary loss of temper and patience, or the throwing of breakable objects).

After two slightly awkward days, we had fallen into old habits with more ease than I for one had anticipated; and though he never voiced the sentiment, I believe Holmes too was relieved at the ease of transition. The morning whereof I speak was my third in my old rooms, and by that point I was both thrilled to be seated across from my old friend and listening eagerly to his discourse, and also quite exasperated that the extent of his conversation seemed to be solely fixated upon the dearth of crime and criminals in this water-logged city.

I stealthily wriggled the sporting page out of the folds of the _Times_ spread across my friend's lap, as he jabbed the agony column with a twitching finger, scowling blacker than the storm-head gathering outside.

"Come now, Holmes," I cajoled gently, as he loosed a string of hardly-polite expletives over the lack of interesting material in his news. "It cannot possibly be as bad as all that."

"Can't it?" he retorted scornfully, and tossed the remaining paper into the grate before I could voice a protest (I had not read it yet). "I have returned from the _dead_ , Watson; surely that deserves the attention of _someone_ in this capital who bears me a grudge of some sort? And in the three weeks since I have, how many truly intriguing problems have appeared to tax my powers? _Three_ , Watson. Three. _Trois_. And _only_ that. Has the entire country gone completely placid and peaceful after the death of its greatest of criminals?"

I remained silent, as I was aware he wished me to be, and ignored the tirade for as long as possible. Unfortunately, his words were quite correct, if a bit melodramatically expressed. London, I should have thought, would have been so ecstatic over its resident celebrity's return that cases would have flocked in the droves to cross our humble Baker Street threshold. Instead, the trickle of visitors seemed to be mainly youngsters who only knew the detective through my paltry efforts at writing romantic fiction (and half of those were only wishing the detective's autograph, not his assistance), or else legitimate cases that even Gregson could (and did, on the sole occasion Holmes sent an hysterical young woman his way for help in locating a runaway – _fly_ away, I suppose I should say – budgie named Petrie) solve unaided.

Holmes was pacing restlessly about the flat now, unbrushed hair bristling above his lowered brows, alternately growling to himself and kicking anything in his way under the nearest article of furniture. Prowling about in that peculiar silent manner that invariably reminded me of a stalking tiger, coiled tighter than a spring until he pounced on an unsuspecting victim, a casualty in the eternal war against his boredom, he was a formidable sight, and not a little frightening.

Our poor landlady was of the same opinion when she entered a few moments later carrying a spotlessly-gleaming silver tea-tray, and was nearly pounced upon by her newly-re-acquired lodger.

"Really, Mr. Holmes!" said she, quite severely, though I had my doubts as to how stern the good lady could be, so pleased was she to have her lodger home.

Remaining aloof, the detective ignored the diatribe and poured himself a cup of the strong brew, waving for me to keep my seat when I would have risen (the weather was playing the fool with my balance mercilessly, due to old injuries, and I was more than willing to remain where I was). "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I do not suppose you could be prevailed upon for some scones or the like?"

Our worthy landlady sniffed injuriously, all the while shooting me a smile behind the detective's bent back. "Mr. Holmes, had you eaten the breakfast I provided not two hours ago, you –"

"I have sorely missed your baking, my dear lady," he interrupted, bowing smartly over the tea-tray with a chivalry that I could clearly see was exaggerated. I rolled my eyes and returned to my sporting page, leaving the two of them to play the game by themselves, and was jolted out of a half-doze when the door closed behind the landlady as she departed with promises of a fruitcake or some such desirables in short order.

"Three years has certainly not diminished your manipulative abilities," I observed, accepting the cup he held out to me. "Thank you."

I received a smug smirk as he folded himself, long-legged, into his old armchair, and wriggled until he was comfortable again. "It is a useful talent, Doctor."

"No doubt," I replied dryly.

Sipping my drink in silence for a moment, I watched while his intense grey eyes stared into the glowing, crackling coals as if trying to read his future – or possibly relive his past – in their crimson-orange depths. Finally, coming out of the reverie, he shot me a repentant smile and sighed.

"That bad, eh?"

"Watson, why has no one come with a case worthy of my talents?" he asked plaintively. "Surely somewhere in this metropolis there is a criminal with enough fortitude to test his will against mine, or at least the audacity to believe himself capable of doing so. Why does nothing _happen_?"

"I cannot answer that." I set my teacup down upon the hearthstones as I could not reach the table for the moment. "I am not quite certain even you realize what happened when the Moriarty gang was dissolved three years ago. You shook this city to its foundations, Holmes, for even its government was not exempt from the corruption in the ranks. It has taken this long for the city to regain its footing, and the criminal element is still – thank heaven – wary of the fate that befell their leader. At your hands, might I add."

"In other words, I have only myself to blame, and so I need to simply be quiet and accept the fact?" he asked with a slanted eyebrow.

I smiled. "Or at least stop bemoaning the fact that no one has tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament, or shoot you through our bay window, or –"

Mrs. Hudson entered at this rather aimless juncture in the conversation, bearing a plate of fruitcake (which Holmes appropriated in short order), and showing us a most scandalized look upon her countenance.

"You have two visitors, Mr. Holmes," said she, primly dusting crumbs off the tablecloth after Holmes had shoved the entirety of the cake piece into his mouth, to free his hands so they could smooth back his hair and fix his tie in the space of about three seconds, so excited was he.

"Excellent, Mrs. Hudson! Urgent, would you say?"

"I am sure I have no idea, Mr. Holmes." The good woman's eyes narrowed. "If you ask me, I do not like their look, sir. One of them even refused to remove his hat, if you can believe such a thing! I offered to take their coats and hats, and I declare if I've never seen such rudeness!"

Holmes waved listlessly in her direction, ramming his hand into a drawer for a notebook, which he then hurled in the general direction of my head before sprinting into his room to don his jacket and shut the door on the clutter (barely) contained within the confines of his bedchamber.

"It must be an important case, to bring them out in such weather," I observed, striding to the window and parting the curtains upon the grey, runny landscape outside.

"I would not know, Doctor," the lady replied primly. "But neither of them had a calling-card, and would only tell me the matter was extremely urgent."

"Odd, wouldn't you say, Holmes?" I inquired as the detective bounded back into the room, kicking an errant slipper under the settee and flipping the lapels of his jacket to the outside.

"Unusual, but not alarmingly so," he replied mechanically, pocketing his unlit pipe and turning to smile beatifically at our ruffled landlady. "Do show them up, Mrs. Hudson. At this stage of my _ennui_ , I should welcome even a mass murderer to our hearth, if only for the diversion. I trust these gentlemen will be considerably less disturbing."

If my friend had only known how wrong he was, we might have been better prepared for the coming days. However, at that time, we knew nothing of these men nor what they represented, and as such only settled in to await their story and request for Holmes's assistance.


	2. Chapter Two

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in orbit around Aeternus (1)_

_Stardate 3955.2_

"It's the tallest tale I've ever heard, Jim, that's all I've got to say." Dr. Leonard McCoy, Chief Medical Officer, leaned back in his chair with the hint of an insolent grin. "I mean, really – how could a man from Earth's old _Victorian_ _Age_ exist in our time for three whole years and nobody realize where he came from or what he is?"

"Quite easily, Doctor," his Vulcan commander answered calmly from across the table. "You have existed in this time period for forty-seven-point-eight years, and we do not yet know what _you_ are."

Captain James T. Kirk inhaled a lungful of coffee, coughed for a moment, and handed the cup back to a waiting yeoman, managing to return the eager smile before she nodded and left the room. "Gentlemen," he rasped at last, wiping his face, "you'll agree this is hardly the time."

"I do agree, Captain. Time, quite literally in this case, is of the essence, since it is Time that is in serious danger of being disrupted even as we speak," the First Officer replied, indicating the small viewscreen before them.

On the screen flicked a continual feed of images, Federation scientists working on the planet's surface. Ever since their first encounter with The Guardian, the Federation had taken a well-deservedly cautious interest in the planet holding the Time Portal, and had declared it to be restricted from all ships other than scientific study vessels; the Portal was far too dangerous for such casual usage as its Guardian had seemed to offer when they had first arrived.

After they had received Starfleet Priority One orders for the _Enterprise_ to proceed to Aeternus, McCoy had been cautiously observing the Captain's frame of mind, and he knew Spock had been as well; the wound left by Edith Keeler's death had since healed, at least to all appearances, but he knew those kinds of wounds scarred deeply.

By mutual assent, that was part of the reason he and the First Officer had scarcely entered the briefing room before metaphorically clawing at each others' throats; their verbal warfare usually served to keep the Captain's mind upon establishing peace aboard ship, leaving him little time for personal reflection or memory. It was a habit by now, a pleasant one, and everyone aboard except the Captain knew it.

The other part of McCoy's reason, was that sometimes he absolutely _despised_ that supercilious Vulcan superiority, and he was the only one on the ship bold enough to take the First Officer down a notch or two. Nobody else had the guts except Jim, and Jim didn't have the heart; so it fell to him.

And a pretty darn good job he did of it, too.

"I still think it's insane, Jim. And dangerous," he continued, leaning forward with a frown devoid of any amusement. "If it is true? Being ordered to go back and retrieve two _more_ men from the nineteenth century, and bring them back into our world? That's never been done, for one thing! And talk about disrupting the timestream!"

"No, it hasn’t been done, but the Guardian assured the observation team that the Portal works both ways," Kirk explained patiently, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "It's just that those on the historical side of the portal don't know of its existence, and never will. It can only be activated from this side, unless someone from our side goes in and brings people back from the other side."

"But think about it, Jim! If we go bringing people back from the past, we could alter our own timelines…alter theirs too, for that matter –"

"Doctor, if you could utilize some logic instead of that insatiable desire for pointless conversation, you would realize that the timeline has already been compromised," Spock interjected smoothly when Kirk would have interrupted. "We simply are not aware of how much damage this first man has caused."

"He's apparently had three years to do it in, too," Kirk added, watching the viewscreen as the Federation scientists continued their tests on the portal. The portal had not been tested since they had returned from the Terran 1930s, but apparently it was still in perfect functioning order. "Spock, hypothesize. How could any man from that time period make himself such a menace, undetected until now, in that amount of time? How would he have the knowledge?"

"Captain, all the knowledge of the universe is readily available to any man in this time period," the Vulcan replied soberly. "All that is necessary for the wrong man to gain too much power is a superior mind and memory. And obviously, from the manner in which this man has, undetected, infiltrated some of Starfleet's most carefully guarded secrets and technology, we can safely infer that he has a superior brain – especially for his time. I would surmise an extremely high intelligence quotient, especially in the areas of logic and mathematics."

"And in sheer nerve, and acting ability, to be able to work his way into Starfleet and replace an officer of Commander Morbus' standing, without anyone realizing the fact," Kirk added pensively.

"Morbus wasn't the friendly type even decades ago, Jim, I had him as instructor in the Academy," the doctor interposed pointedly. "He barely spoke three words to anyone other than his captain by all accounts, and you know how Captain Brust is with his crew. It's no wonder nobody noticed the man wasn't who he said he was. A simple disguise and a whole lotta guts, and there you have it."

"In addition to that rather emotional, if anatomically inaccurate, observation, Doctor," Spock added, "the only three people close to the Commander – his son, and two of his subordinates – were killed in three separate and, statistically speaking, highly improbable accidents aboard the _Dracone_ almost exactly two years, nine months ago."

"Someone getting too close to the truth?"

"Possibly, Captain. At any rate, the fact remains that the man calling himself Commander Morbus has been proven by recent voice identification to _not_ be the Commander. All identification until this most recent, covert operation, has been carefully – I might say expertly – manipulated and falsified. Whoever he is, he is a master of deception, to so deceive even high-ranking Starfleet officials for so long." The Vulcan's eyebrows drew together in a thin line. "He is obviously playing what is called a long game. And he is thereby highly dangerous."

"Obviously. But what is this long game, I wonder?" Jim Kirk rose to pace a line on the floor, stopping and wheeling around once reaching the other wall. He raised the question again. "What is he planning? Three years of this deception, and he hasn't tried to sabotage anything –"

"That we know of, Captain," Spock pointed out.

"Has Captain Brust been warned about his First Officer?" McCoy asked, tapping a finger on the spotless table.

Kirk sighed. "No, Bones…another of Starfleet's orders. No one except the three of us knows. And we only know because we have to go through the Portal and get two men who are supposed to know how to help us get Morbus – or whoever he really is – back into his own time without disrupting the continuum, and bring them back with us. I don't _know_ who it is, Bones," he continued when the physician looked ready to burst with questions. "We're to be told once we get down there."

"Obviously, the _Enterprise_ and her crew were chosen due to our previous experience with the Time Portal, and a wish to keep such knowledge as contained as possible. I would venture to conjecture –"

Spock's voice was cut short by the whistle indicating transmission from the Bridge, and an instant later a familiar female voice was informing them there was a message from the planet's surface, with beam-down coordinates.

"Transmit the coordinates to Scotty, Lieutenant," Kirk said, turning toward his friends and fellow officers. "Spock, we've ten minutes to change into nineteenth-century clothing, waiting in your quarters."

“This I gotta see.”

“Bones, play nice. Anyway,” Kirk added as they moved as one unit toward the doors, "You know as much as I do now. All we can do now, is hope these fine gentlemen live up to their reputation. Apparently it’s quite a interesting one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Latin word for _Forever_. To my knowledge, the planet on which the Guardian sits in the episode _City on the Edge of Forever_ is never specifically named in TOS. Correct me if my memory fails.


	3. Chapter Three

_221B Baker Street, London, England_

_June 2, 1894_

Amid much-put-upon airs, our estimable landlady showed in our two visitors, shooting a look at the taller gentleman's back as if to warn us in her unique covert perception to watch him closely, before closing the door behind her as she exited. I failed to see how the odd refusal to remove a hat could have upset the woman so, but my attention was soon engaged by Holmes's immediate striding across the room with a welcoming hand outstretched, practically springing at the gentlemen in his eagerness to be rid of the stagnation that had gripped him for the last week.

"Gentlemen, I am Sherlock Holmes. My friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson," he said. I noticed a faint flush of pleasure filter into his sallow cheeks at the unfamiliar and yet familiar phrase, and felt my own face warm slightly in a mirroring sensation.

The taller man fixed me with one piercing gaze, the like of which reminded me of Holmes himself – or possibly his older brother, only much darker, almost hypnotic – and after nodding cordially turned his attention back to his companion.

Though shorter and of heavier build, this man was obviously the leader in the conversation, and it was he who shook Holmes’s hand and made the introductions, all the while looking about him as if absolutely enthralled with our tiny sitting room and what it held. I took the opportunity while his attention was so engaged to make my own study of our visitors, but found myself woefully inadequate to deduce much about them beyond their physical descriptions, which were themselves difficult to come by as heavy coats and hats cloaked much of their appearances. I did notice the peculiar pointed sideburns on both men, certainly at odds with any man I had ever seen before, and noted that their apparel was devoid of more than slight damp from the weather; and yet we had heard no cab pull up outside. Curious.

"Mr. Holmes, you don't know me, but you were recommended to me as a man who could help us," the shorter of the two began directly, in a clear, incisive tone that seemed to me to be an odd mix of forcefulness and innate charisma; the type of man who could command by voice alone, and _had_ on more than one occasion.

"Indeed?" Holmes returned, glancing toward me for a moment. I saw wariness and a slight warning in his eyes, and wondered what it was about these men that he had deduced which I had been unable to perceive. "I am afraid you have the advantage of me, Mr….?"

"Oh…um, Kirk, James Kirk," the fellow replied, shifting his weight to the other foot. "This is my friend, Mr. – Mr. Spock." The hesitancy struck me as oddly incongruous with his confident air, but I dismissed it quickly; most of my feeble attempts at deduction ended disastrously and I was not about to commit to another in the presence of experts.

"American, I perceive, Mr. Kirk? Pray be seated, and your…companion." When he chose, Sherlock Holmes was as personable as the next man, and in the face of a possible new case he had turned that charming power on to its fullest.

"American…Yes, actually, I was born in Iowa, in the Midwest States," the young fellow replied cautiously, seating himself gingerly on our settee. After a moment's hesitation, his tall companion followed, sitting perfectly still; watching everything that occurred and missing nothing.

I felt a sudden surge of unease, and firmly quelled it – but somehow the taller man seemed to sense my apprehension for he suddenly fixed me with a glance of reassurance that was oddly calming.

"Mr. Kirk," Holmes said suddenly, leaning forward with his fingertips pressed together eagerly. "Would you indulge my curiosity for a moment?"

"Sure thing. What is it?"

"What manner of transportation did you employ to arrive here this morning?" Holmes asked curiously.

I had expected a surprised reaction, but not the widening of eyes that met our gaze; from Kirk, not his companion (who was still sitting, motionless and expressionless as he had been). "Why do you ask, Mr. Holmes?"

"Simply that I find myself singularly unable to account for your appearances, Mr. Kirk. I heard no vehicles stop at the door; therefore you did not come by cab or carriage. And yet, if you had walked any distance in this deluge, you should both by rights be completely soaked through, even a short distance. As it stands," here Holmes indicated the men's damp coats and boots, "your coats are scarcely damp, and your boots even less so; I should say you walked no more than half a block in them, if that. And yet you are obviously not from any part of London, as evidenced by your complete disregard for English fashion - come now, sir, I am no expert myself but those four-buttoned waistcoats went out three winters previously; no self-respecting native to the metropolis would wear such - nor are you staying at a hotel nearby for you would hardly have been permitted to leave on foot in this weather."

"No, we haven't been in London for long, Mr. Holmes," the young man responded, the surprised look fading from his eyes. I smiled, for the reaction to Holmes's theatrics was common among his first-time clients, slight though the show of his powers had been. "We only came to see you, as a matter of fact."

"Well, then, gentlemen. I am at your disposal." My friend flicked me a glance, and then settled comfortably back in the basket-chair, fingers steepled together and his eyelids half-closed. I noted that our visitors never had answered my friend's question, nor had Holmes given out with a lengthy spiel of his usual deductive powers' results. Obviously, each of them had their reasons for this, which piqued my curiosity even further. "Pray begin at the beginning, and omit no detail of your story."

The two men exchanged a long look, and I saw the taller raise an eyebrow slightly, to which the younger man nodded and turned back toward us. "Actually, Mr. Holmes, it might be easier if we could show you what our…case, our problem, is. Would you and the Doctor be able to come with us right away?"

Holmes opened one eye fully. "My dear Mr. Kirk, I cannot quite place to what highly secretive organization you and your… _interesting_ …companion belong, but you can hardly expect us to accompany two complete strangers – and ones that are fully armed, and prepared to use force upon us if necessary – without some explanation as to our future whereabouts. Oh, come, come gentlemen. It is hardly any secret," he added with a _tsk_ ing air, smiling at the start the young man gave involuntarily.

The taller of our visitors – Mr. Spock, Kirk had said his name to be – only raised an eyebrow, and I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Hardly an alarming action; I found myself relaxing from my suddenly nerved state.

"Mr. Holmes, I assure you my intentions are completely peaceful," Kirk said earnestly, lifting both hands in a placating gesture.

"Yes, of course they are," Holmes agreed blithely. "Doctor, you can hardly take notes without a writing instrument; I believe you left your fountain pen in your desk drawer? Now then, Mr. Kirk," he continued as I nodded, taking the cue from my friend, and moved easily toward my desk, "I am correct in deducing that this gentleman is one of your subordinates, am I not? And you are certainly no American, not as I know the race at least; your speech, while having a colonial ring, is not so harsh in the hard consonants as our American cousins' normally is – and more so, your friend is most _definitely_ not of any particular nativity which I can deduce. Your clothing, while fair imitations of general European cut and style, is as far from accurate in cloth and colouring as is possible to be, to a trained observer. Doctor, have you found what you are looking for?"

"Quite, Holmes," I replied succinctly, turning with my revolver in hand (from where I'd stealthily retrieved it from my desk drawer), and pulling the hammer back.

Interestingly enough, when the taller man moved as if to leave his seat it was the other who shot out a hand to halt the motion. "Easy, Spock," I heard the young man mutter in an undertone. “That’s no phaser.”

Watching this obviously familiar (if completely mystifying to me) exchange, I on pure instinct turned the revolver upon Kirk instead of his companion, and saw a flash of dark anger well up and then vanish just as quickly in the taller man's eyes as he subsided into morbid silence once again.

"Now, gentlemen," Holmes drawled, moving to stand beside me while still keeping out of my line of fire. "Do take your outerwear off, and let us drop the subterfuge. Who are you, and exactly what is your mission with the good Doctor and myself?"


	4. Chapter Four

**_Chapter Four_ **

_221B Baker Street, London, England_

_June 2, 1894_

"Well, Mr. Holmes, since you seem to have the advantage here," our visitor began breezily enough, standing and stretching in an obviously (even to my untrained observation) exaggerated gesture of pretended ease, "I suppose truthfulness is our best decision, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Spock?"

"As you say, Captain. Shall I check to see if we were followed?" the other returned impassively.

I saw the younger man's eyes focus on the barrel of the revolver I held pointed in his direction, and question Holmes with what was probably meant to be a disarming smile. "As you said, Mr. Holmes, we are part of a larger organization, and as such we can't afford to be overheard. I'm sure you can see that, _logically_ , if we'd wanted to harm you we could have as soon as we entered the room."

Holmes nodded imperceptibly, and at the unspoken permission the taller man moved to the window and parted the curtain on the deluge pouring outside. "Be that as it may, Mr. Kirk, I find it rather difficult to ascertain many details about you, and that fact alone is certainly cause for concern," my friend declared sensibly. "Under any normal circumstances, my powers of deduction are able to penetrate any disguise and divulge enough details about a man to furnish me with a fair sketch of his character and habits. But you…" he paused, and took a few steps curiously forward to look closer at our enigmatic visitor. "There is something quite unusual about you, Mr. Kirk. Almost as if…you are…"

"Different from the men you know?" the man supplied quietly.

I raised an eyebrow at the frank admittance, but somehow the honest air seemed genuine enough on the man.

Holmes nodded, a hint of a sardonic smile quirking at the side of his mouth. "Very different, my dear sir. Now, shall we have the truth of the matter?"

"Yeeeess," the word was drawn out slowly, and the man bit his lip for a moment before continuing on, more hurriedly, "I suppose that would be the smart thing to do. But just to be on the safe side –"

Too late, I realized that the taller man had made his way up behind me, and as I whirled round, instincts screaming a warning, my arm was caught and held, and enough pressure applied to the nerves in my wrist that it nearly buckled my knees then and there. Doggedly I clutched the gun with both hands, but so inexorable was the firm grip that when my arms were forced enough downward that my weak shoulder was wrenched unbearably, I was forced to drop the weapon. Pain flooding through my arm drove me stumbling to one knee for a moment with a barely repressed gasp – never in my life had I felt such brute strength from a man, any man, much less one who looked so perfectly harmless.

Strong hands suddenly grasped the elbow and wrist of my right arm, and above the slight buzzing in my ears I heard voices, gradually becoming clearer as the pain subsided into a dull throbbing and the haze dissipated before my eyes.

To my eternal shock, I realised that the man helping me back to my feet was not Holmes, for he was standing by the fireplace, his eyes smouldering with a burning rage, hands held motionless halfway to his shoulders. Before him stood our other visitor, the most bizarrely-shaped pistol I have ever beheld in my life held expertly in one hand, effectively arresting my friend's movements when he would have assisted me.

The same man who had caused me to drop my revolver was now holding my arm steadily until I regained my footing, and I vaguely registered that he was asking if I were seriously injured.

"I regret, Doctor, that I had no prior knowledge of a weakness in the ligaments of your shoulder. I had no intention of causing you unnecessary pain," he was saying, those dark eyes looking down at me in something that I would have sworn was veiled remorse. "I merely wished you to drop the weapon, and was not expecting such strength or stubbornness from a human in refusing to do so."

"Spock," the other exclaimed warningly, though I wasn't quite sure the reason for the sudden note of alarm in his previously calm voice.

"Watson?"

"I'm…quite all right, Holmes," I answered breathlessly, though my shoulder ached as well as the wrist this man had somehow applied such incredible pressure to. "But…" I shook my head, my mind in a whirl at the almost ludicrous manner in which these two extraordinary fellows were behaving. "I wouldn't attempt physical resistance, at least not without the aid of a solid lead pipe or some such," I finished dryly, rubbing my wrist.

Holmes's lips twitched at my poor attempt at humor, and to my surprise the younger of our visitors _snickered_. The man I was standing next to only raised an eyebrow, which seemed to be his peculiar equivalent to rolling his eyes ceiling-ward, and somehow I knew that these men really did mean us no true harm. It had been a sensible precaution, after all, to move the gun away from a man who obviously knew how to use it.

Just the same, Sherlock Holmes was not happy, and had no qualms about saying so.

The younger man's eyes widened at the explosion, and I hid a grin as he instinctively stepped back from the incensed detective. "Um…Mr. Holmes…"

"Fascinating," the taller man intoned, giving me a small nod before moving cautiously back to his superior's side. "I'd no idea such colorful language was in common usage in this excruciatingly proper time period of your Earth's history, Captain."

"That's the second time you've called him 'Captain', sir," I interjected, before Holmes's tirade landed us in the position to know just exactly how much damage Kirk's weapon could cause. "Are you a military organization, then?"

"Of sorts," Kirk admitted slowly. Again, the two seemed to communicate without words, only a gesture and a nod or two, for a moment, and then he pocketed his weapon slowly. "Gentlemen, I assure you we mean you no harm. Threatening each other with physical violence is not only undignified and will not help our problem, but it is also not our way. We are a peaceful people, and only believe in weaponry being used in self-defense."

"Well, that is good to know," I muttered under my breath, gingerly massaging my arm before reaching down to regain my fallen revolver. At a curt nod from Holmes, I too pocketed the weapon, and moved to my companion's side to face our curious visitors. We stood there for a moment, side by side, looking warily at each other.

Then, "Mr. Holmes, Doctor," Kirk began more calmly, "I don't blame you for being skeptical, to say the least, about us and our purpose here. Will you give us the opportunity to explain ourselves, to prove what we are about to say is true, before passing judgment on our story?"

Holmes raised a glance to me, his eyes already alight with the fires of curiosity that fueled his very, very bored soul – how could I do less than agree?

* * *

_Planet Aeternus, Surface_

_Stardate 3955.9_

Dr. Leonard McCoy possessed many redeeming qualities (or so he continually protested to his shipmates and bragged about to the women he encountered on his shore leaves), but patience was not among the strongest of them.

Pacing in a tight circle, he finally flipped open his communicator with a definitive jerk. "Scotty –"

_"Exactly three minutes later than the last time ye asked, Doctor. Y'must relax, sir, or you'll be doin' none of us any good at all."_

"And since when are you qualified to diagnose?" he retorted irritably. "How's the ship holding up in the temporal disturbances?"

_"All ship-shape an' Bristol fashion, Doctor. We've plotted the disturbances just as Mister Spock instructed, and nary a ripple have we seen."_

"Any sign of the _Dracone_?"

_"Not a peep, sir. Y'know I'd inform you as soon as she comes into sensor range. With any luck at all, she'll not find out we're here unless Starfleet has a leak tha' we don' know about."_

"Let's just hope if she does arrive, we've enough power to get us both away from the Portal," the physician muttered pessimistically. _Heaven help us if whoever this fella is discovers he can hop back and forth through time at will…_

 _"M’engines'll have enough power to do that and more, Doctor, thank ye very much!"_ the voice crackled with indignation even through the communications device.

“How much longer can it possibly take anyway,” he muttered, snapping the communicator closed.

He then jumped nearly out of his blue shirt as the booming voice of the Guardian broke the idyllic stillness of the portal. "Ten minutes remain, before your companions must return with those they seek, or remain in that which was, for another twenty-four hours," the disembodied voice intoned.

"Do you have to scare a fella like that?" the physician groused irritably, glaring at the shimmering light that he assumed represented the intelligence programmed into the Portal. "'S bad enough knowing Jim and that pet Vulcan of his went in there under a time constraint, without you tryin' to give me a heart attack counting down the seconds!"

"I am programmed to answer questions, nothing more," the voice droned without inflection. "You did ask a question, Traveller."

"Oh, never mind," he groaned, kicking a small rock across the dusky purple landscape. "Hurry up, Jim, will you?"


	5. Chapter Five

**_Chapter Five_ **

_221B Baker Street, London, England_

_June 2, 1894_

"This is all going to sound a little…far-fetched, to you, Mr. Holmes, Doctor," the young man said slowly. "But from what we've been told of you gentlemen, you're somewhat used to seeing the unexpected, and sometimes unexplainable."

"Nothing is logically inexplicable," Holmes replied coolly, "though there have been times when the explanations are scarcely more credible than the events themselves. I take it this is to be one of the latter, then."

The man nodded, sinking easily back into his seat and motioning his threatening companion to do the same. Reluctantly Holmes and I followed suit, but my chair remained where it was while my friend pulled his closer to the settee, his eyes already glinting predatorily at the thought of a case involving such volatile and outrageous factors.

The fact that he had only just informed me, quite seriously, that he would welcome the diversion of a serial killer in our flat, so stagnated was he, was not at all encouraging to my frame of mind.

My companion was about to put one of his incisive questions to our visitors when the taller of them suddenly glanced at his friend – for it was obvious so they were – with a hint of a frown. "Captain, we have exactly twenty-two minutes and thirty seconds remaining of our time here. Might I suggest the direct approach to be the most effective method. Mr. Holmes is a logical man; the Truth is not so unbelievable to such."

"Twenty-two?" Kirk rubbed his eyes briefly and then turned back to us with a resigned air. "In that case, gentlemen, I'll come straight to the point. Your powers are somewhat well-known to us, Mr. Holmes, and I'm sure you've already figured out some of what I'm about to tell you."

"Save the obvious facts that I have already stated, I can deduce nothing," my friend muttered gracelessly through a clenched jaw. "For once in my not inconsiderable career, I find myself at a total loss to explain this lapse."

"That is no reflection upon you, Mr. Holmes," Mr. Spock replied.

"And why is that?"

"Because, gentlemen…" Kirk hesitated only the fraction of an instant before continuing, with a somewhat sheepish look at the both of us, "…we are not from this world, as you know it."

Holmes's eyebrows were doing a fair imitation of our other visitor's, and I coughed to hide my smile both at the motion and at the ridiculousness of the statement.

"Really, Mr. Kirk –"

"Doctor, I assure you that we are neither mad nor lying," the taller man assured me quietly, and for some odd reason I found myself strangely compelled to believe him despite the egregious impossibility of the thing. "And," he continued calmly, "we have come prepared to prove it."

"Have you now."

"Mr. Holmes, you did promise to hear us out before dismissing us as a couple of psychopaths," Kirk remonstrated.

Chuckling in his peculiar silent fashion, to my surprise my friend beckoned the men to continue, and only shot me a wry glance over the stem of his pipe. "Very well, gentlemen, but I can safely promise that if you are merely idealists of the ilk of our dubiously-revered Mr. Wells, even the intrigue of your company will not budge the Doctor nor me from this room." He lit a match, held it to the bowl of the pipe, and to all appearances resigned himself to an incredible tale.

"Wells?" Kirk murmured quizzically.

"Herbert George Wells, Captain. British writer of scientific fiction during this time period, specializing in extremely controversial and fanciful novels with dubious scientific information upon which to base his conjectures," the other informed dryly. "Novels include _The Invisible Man_ , _War of the Worlds_ , _The Time Machine_ –"

"Well, that is one thing upon which we agree, Mr. Spock," Holmes chortled, obviously greatly amused by the flat depiction. "The fellow is certainly fanciful, even more so than Watson in those romantic memoirs of his."

"And despite your opinion of mine and Mr. Wells's work, it seems to sell rather well, you cannot deny it," I retorted, indicating the theatre tickets for tomorrow evening which were lying upon the table, the expense of which had been covered by my own pocketbook.

"Touche, my dear fellow. My apologies, Mr. Kirk. Pray continue, and do stop beating around the bush." Realizing he still held the burnt-out match in his amusement, my friend tossed it into the coals and regained his amused composure. "You say, gentlemen, that you are – pardon the expression – not of this world? As in, otherworldly? Supernatural?"

"Not exactly, Mr. Holmes." The man glanced from me back to my companion, and took a deep breath. "We are from your world, Earth…at least I am. But…"

"Yes?" I interjected impatiently, for the man seemed to be vacillating unreasonably in his explanations.

"But we are from three-and-one-half centuries into your future, Doctor," Mr. Spock answered calmly.

Holmes fumbled for his falling pipe before it set his trousers afire, and I stared unabashedly at our strange visitors. "I beg your pardon."

"We are from the earth year 2268, Doctor," Kirk answered matter-of-factly. "In our day, travelling through time has been made possible, if somewhat risky. Surely you, Mr. Holmes, a man of science, can accept the possibility that so far into your future such things could exist?"

Holmes repressed a snort of derision. "Mr. Kirk, I am, as you said, a man of science. I do not deny the idea that _anything_ could exist over three hundred years from now, though I would hope our peoples might then have more constructive uses for their time than returning to a period so far in the past for the sole purpose of wasting my own.”

Kirk half-smiled.

“However, you will forgive me some understandable disbelief that you can possibly be what you claim. My world is the here and now, gentlemen, and the other worlds may remain that way, _other_ worlds."

"'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,'" Mr. Spock ventured quietly from his seat, and Holmes's eyes narrowed a fraction. "Yes," the man answered the unspoken inquiry. "Your Shakespeare is still known and taught in our time."

"Your time. 2268." Holmes's voice held a hint of reproach for the idea that we would so easily be taken in by such obvious charlatans. "My dear sir, you cannot possibly expect us to believe you."

"Even if we can prove we are who we say we are?" Kirk challenged.

Holmes's brows drew together commandingly. "And just who is that?"

"I already told you, my name is –"

"Yes, Mr. – Captain? – Kirk, you have. You have not explained _what_ you are, which promises to be far more interesting than your surnames."

The man rose to his feet and paced uneasily over to the window to look out at the pouring rain. "How much time, Spock?"

"Seventeen minutes, sixteen-point-one-three-seven –"

"Yes, yes, all right. Mr. Holmes, we don't have much time left so I'll come straight to the point with you."

"That is generally the best course of action. Please do so."

"In our time," he began, turning to face us, "not only time travel, but space travel has been made possible. You will not deny that the possibility exists for men to travel among the stars, I trust?"

"Many laws of the universe as we know it would need to be broken to do so, but I do not deny the possibility. Pray continue."

"In our time, huge…starships, we call them, vessels that can fly among the stars…have been constructed, and I am the captain of one such vessel. The pride of the Starfleet, actually, the flagship of the Federation." The man's face flushed with obvious pleasure in his tale, and I saw his compelling eyes glow with a love-light that could not possibly have been an act. "Her name is the _Enterprise_."

"I suppose we are expected to take your word for this…tale?" Holmes asked with mild curiosity.

"Not at all, Mr. Holmes," his companion interjected. "I am aware of the analytical nature of your mind, and as such have brought what I can to offer as proof. This device," here he pulled a small box from his coat pocket and Holmes moved over beside him to watch, "is called a miniature _tricorder_ in our time. It has the capability to record information, sounds, movements, images, exactly as they transpire. Similar to your gramophone and cinema, if I remember the primitive technology correctly, but far more advanced."

I had heard of experiments of the sort in Europe with music and sound (indeed I was endeavouring to convince Holmes to purchase a gramophone), though obviously not of this calibre, and watched with interest as the man pushed a button and the small device chirped and began humming. To my surprise, a small image suddenly appeared on the smooth glass surface – a graceful structure, the like of which I had never seen before and have not seen since, sleek and obviously of a design far different than any military vessel we knew. It appeared entirely without anything I could recognise as engines or boilers, and was superimposed upon a background of twinkling stars; apparently genuine, I conjectured, if what these men said were true.

"This is a...photograph, you would call it, of the _Enterprise_ ," Mr. Spock informed us. "And this," he pressed a button, and the image changed. I recognized the man standing patiently across the room, though his clothing was considerably different from that which he now wore; gone were the stiff collar and cravat, and instead he wore a simple gold-colored shirt with an insignia of sorts upon the left side, black trousers peculiarly short above the ankle, and high black boots. Apparently the scene was a strange desert country, and the man was talking into a small copper-coloured device and correspondingly speaking with another man standing beside a strange rock-like structure. This other man was garbed in blue, and I could tell even with the small image that the strange clothes were obviously a uniform of some kind.

"This is a planet called _Aeternus_ , Mr. Holmes, Doctor," Mr. Spock explained, and his dark eyes, half-hidden under his hat-brim, flicked over to Holmes and back to me. "On that planet, a portal exists which will allow a man to travel into the past at any point he chooses. This is how we were able to return three and a half centuries into your time, the present year being your 1894. Aeternus is under strict quarantine to all Starfleet personnel due to the possibilities of this time-traveling mechanism, and knowledge of the planet is highly classified; you can appreciate the reasons for such precautions."

"Wait, wait just a moment," Holmes interrupted, inspecting the device with mild interest. "Let us suppose we could bring ourselves to believe you, for sake of argument. What reason could you possibly have for returning to our time period, to request our help? If you are as advanced as this…device…and your tale seems to indicate, what aid could _we_ possibly render you?"

"Because, Mr. Holmes," Kirk spoke up from across the room, "a man from your time period has already penetrated ours, through some anomaly, a vortex in the space-time continuum. For three years, he has been steadily infiltrating the ranks of our governmental organization, and now he poses a very real threat to the safety of the Federation, and to our worlds. We were instructed to retrieve you, and the Doctor, and bring you to our time period, because only you have the knowledge we need to stop this man from destroying the universe as we know it."

"I?" Holmes asked, his eyes lighting up with sheer unbridled curiosity. "And this man is from our time?"

"Indeed," Mr. Spock agreed, glancing at me for a moment. "In our time, he has assumed the rank and persona of one Lieutenant-Commander Harkin Morbus, a Starfleet officer, and is most likely plotting to assassinate the captain and assume captaincy of the ship on which he currently serves. That will give him the power of a starship, enough power to destroy an entire planet if he wishes, among other things. He has shown remarkable patience and cunning in doing nothing more than methodically moving his way through the ranks of our Starfleet, safeguarding himself so that only recently have we become aware of the threat he poses."

"You said Morbus was his name in your time period. And in ours?" I asked hesitantly.

"And in your time, gentlemen, you knew him three years ago as a professor of mathematics, and the worst criminal mastermind your world has seen to date."

I felt the blood drain from my face, and saw peripherally that Holmes had gone quite still suddenly.

"From what our organization’s intelligence has been able to discover, Mr. Holmes," our visitor continued quietly, "your Professor James Moriarty is not, as you believe, deceased as of three years, one month, and thirty days ago. A vortex at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls enabled him to slip through into in our time, gentlemen. And he must be stopped before he succeeds in destroying one or both our worlds."


	6. Chapter Six

**_Chapter Six_ **

_Planet Aeternus, Surface_

_Stardate 3955.9_

Somewhat sheltered behind a large conglomeration of boulders, McCoy grumbled to himself about the insaneness of this whole mission, and tried not to count the seconds remaining until the Portal closed to Kirk and Spock for twenty-four hours.

That was an unfortunate complication of the Portal's limited time-traveling capability. Starfleet had spent many months now engaged in examining and exploring its possibilities, and had after careful experimentation and cautious decryption of its programming discovered there were a select few ways in which to travel through Time. Travelers were permitted to choose which they preferred, once they know how to trigger the vocal commands.

When no choice was made at all, a default use of the Portal so to speak, it ensured automatically that travelers returned to Aeternus' surface at nearly the same instant they had left; this was why no time had elapsed on the Enterprise crew’s first visit to America's 1930s. The planetary timestream remained stationary in relation to the internal slipstream, so that when the unintentional or inexperienced traveler returned, he had not lost any moments of his life. This default option also was triggered by a simple vocal command, the easiest way to summon the gateway back to the present and a helpful default for any untrained in the intricacies of time travel.

 _Intentionally_ choosing to spend a set amount of time in the past with no interference from the Guardian (be it two hours or two months, any amount was possible) was risky, considering what harm might happen to the Traveler before the time period was up, but sometimes a better choice if the mission might be dangerous enough that there was a risk of a vocal command not being able to be given, and an escape needing to be made. The Guardian itself warned against such regulated trips unless the intent was to regulate the flow of time and the Traveler was well-practiced in the art; apparently in the distant Past there had been entire factions of now extinct timekeepers for this precise monitoring purpose.

In this second type of travel, the Guardian portal appeared at the end of the allotted time, at whatever location the Traveler might be in the Past’s slipstream. Obviously, it would not do to be in the midst of a crowded room or underdeveloped society and have the Portal suddenly pop into existence like a magic gateway, and so choosing a set time was a more risky adventure than the default. This option had so far only been used by Starfleet scientists during research and test missions; the idea of being stranded, so to speak, until a set time for the Portal to reappear was too dangerous for casual historical visits, and the ‘Fleet had no intention of becoming a regular time monitoring agency.

Captain Kirk had chosen the third and most suitable option for this mission, and the shortest of the three the Guardian offered. A set amount of time in the Past, in this case thirty minutes – but the safety feature (the reason Kirk had chosen this) was that the Portal did not appear, nor the Guardian contact them, but rather they must return to the exact point of entry in order to exit the slipstream. This method was used during missions where visitors to the Past would be in the midst of populated areas or dangerous situations, in which immediate vanishing would be highly disruptive to the time periods in which they had been visiting. They were under ‘Fleet orders to take absolutely no risk of altering the timeline or changing the past, and so Kirk had elected to take the third option, which meant that they must return to their exact point of entry into the Past in order for the Portal to retrieve them silently and without alerting the world in which they were strangers. If they missed the pick-up time, or were in a different location than their point of entry at that precise countdown, then for safety measures the Portal did not re-open again for twenty-four hours. They would be then stranded in the slipstream for that period of time.

The Guardian had assured the Federation scientists that members of the slipstream could survive in the Present time period as easily as the Starfleet officers survived in the Past; and they could return the same way. The only catch, Kirk had discovered to his dismay, was that residents of the Past could only travel to the Present in one of two ways; one, willingly return to the pick-up point with them, or two, be in physical contact with him or Spock when the Portal opened.

That left them the choice of either convincing the men they were after through good intentions to willingly follow into some otherworldly, mystical realm…or to use whatever force necessary to get them back to the pick-up point. Both would be extremely difficult, and now McCoy worried that possibly a half-hour hadn't been enough time. Good thing for the Captain that his Vulcan was a walking stopwatch.

By now, the two of them had exactly four minutes left to get themselves back to the pick-up point; he'd been monitoring the seconds until Scotty finally told him he would gladly beam him down a bottle of his oldest contraband, if he would only leave the _Enterprise_ alone for more than two minutes.

Just now, the wind was picking up slightly on the surface, and he placed a cautious call through to the exasperated Chief Engineer. "Scotty, are the temporal disturbances getting worse?"

 _"Aye,"_ came the grumbled affirmative. _"If we have t’warp out of here, ‘tis not going to be a joyride, I can tell ye that."_

"I wish to heck they'd hurry it up in there!" the physician growled.

"Your companions have three minutes, forty-three seconds remaining," the Guardian intoned helpfully.

"Who asked you?" he shot back, brushing lavender sand off his uniform as the wind picked up again.

As the seconds dragged endlessly, he found himself wishing he'd taken up Scotty's offer for the brandy. And to top the whole ridiculous shebang off, he had a transporter ride through temporal disturbances to look forward to when it was over.

Wonderful.

* * *

_221B Baker Street, London, England_

_June 2, 1894_

I passed my hand over my eyes as if to physically dissipate the fogs of memory and disbelief. "You cannot possibly be serious," I protested, though with less force than I had intended; something about the men seemed to compel belief and banish doubt. "This is utterly incredible!"

"That does not mean it's not the truth, Doctor Watson," Kirk replied calmly. "I assure you both, every word Mr. Spock and I have told you _is_ the exact truth. I would have no reason to come all this way with such an elaborate lie. We have an emergency, gentlemen, and we've been given orders by our superiors to bring you back with us, willingly or unwillingly. Doctor, you're a military man yourself if the file we've been given on you is correct; surely you understand duty to a commander?"

Uneasily, I remained silent and glanced over at my companion, for I was well aware we could not possibly be a match for these men – whether they were telling the truth or not, the taller one was immeasurably strong – if they decided to use force upon us.

To my surprise, Holmes looked more intrigued than ill-at-ease, and tapped a finger thoughtfully against his lips. "And you would prefer we go willingly, is that it?" he questioned with a touch of wry impertinence.

"Very much so," the man replied without a trace of sarcasm. "I swear to you, we mean you no harm, and if you come we'll be able to verify anything we've told you in this room."

Holmes shook his head slowly, cocking it to one side and inquisitively seeking out my face. I shrugged, feeling that I should be more uneasy about the whole affair than I was but unable to account for my odd acceptance of the men's incredible story.

"Ten minutes, Jim," the taller man murmured warningly as the Captain re-took his seat. He leaned forward earnestly, hands clasped in front of him.

"Gentlemen, we are running out of time. Mr. Holmes, you must understand – I know this is all unbelievable to you, but the safety of our entire universe hinges upon the knowledge you have of how to beat this man."

"No, no, Mr. Kirk. It simply won't do, my dear sir," my friend replied with his most charming smile. "If your story is true, then you know that this man has no special powers; you are more than capable of disposing of him yourselves. Why, exactly, have you been told to gain my help in the matter – supposing you are not charlatans, which I still doubt. Truthfully now, Mr. Kirk. What is it you _really_ wish with me?"

The young man's eyes glinted, and then hardened into twin points of gold, as he exchanged a resigned glance with his companion. "We are hoping your mental ability to match his thinking, action for action, tactic for tactic, and familiarity with him will be sufficient to give us an advantage. The advantage of surprise, if nothing else, may be our best weapon against him. Our primary mission is to dispose of him without further disrupting Time in our own universe," he began slowly. "But…if we fail to do so, for reasons as yet unknown to us…"

"If we fail in this mission, Mr. Holmes," Mr. Spock picked up the conversation, his tone hardening gravely, "then we will need youto return him through the Guardian into your own time period. To 1891, and see that he does not survive a second time."

* * *

_Planet Aeternus, Surface_

_Stardate 3955.9_

This time, it wasn't him contacting the _Enterprise_ , but his own communicator chirping a warning that jolted him instantly into full alert.

 _"_ Enterprise _to Doctor McCoy. Come in, Doctor."_ Uhura's voice. That meant trouble. He yanked the communicator from its place and held it to his mouth, checking his chronometer one more time. Two minutes remaining.

"McCoy here, go ahead."

 _"Doctor, we have a ship entering the sector at Warp Six. Starfleet recognizes no authorized ships in this area outside the_ Enterprise _and the_ Reliant _, the science vessel currently in orbit around the planet."_

He swore under his breath. "I don't suppose you can identify the ship yet?"

_"No positive identification yet, sir, but it is a Constitution-class starship."_

"The _Dracone_ ," he muttered. A sinking feeling began to freeze in his gut, as if he'd taken a heavy sedative on an empty stomach and promptly been sick after it.

_"Perhaps, sir. Mr. Scott has gone down to Engineering to see to the warp engines. We may need to leave orbit immediately after the landing party is beamed aboard."_

"I would agree with that," he muttered, moving into position in front of the Portal. One minute, fifteen seconds. "They've got one minute, fifteen seconds left."

 _"And if they don't return on time, the Captain's orders were to keep the_ Dracone _away from this planet, Doctor. Shall I have Mr. Scott –"_

"I'm not leaving until we _all_ leave. Tell Scotty to stand by. McCoy out," he snapped, viciously ramming the communicator back into its holder.

"This had better be worth it, that's all I've got to say," he muttered, as the archway began to shimmer with an incandescent glow, preparing to dissolve the Past around those who wished to return through the Portal.


	7. Chapter Seven

**_Chapter Seven_ **

_221B Baker Street, London, England_

_June 2, 1894_

Aghast, I stared at our visitors after that cold-blooded pronouncement had fallen. "You are asking us to murder a man," I protested, my Oath and my morals screaming in protest, casting doubt into my mind as to these men's ruthlessness. Appearances could be deceiving, after all…

"No, Doctor," Mr. Spock replied seriously. "In your time, this man is already dead. You are not murdering, nor even truly executing him; merely putting him to rest, as he should already be as of three years previous to this stardate. Year and day, in your time."

"It was just bad luck that he slipped through a vortex into our universe," Kirk added reassuringly. "For all intents and purposes, he's _already_ dead. You just have to make sure history is restored, that's all."

I glanced at Holmes, who was obviously deep in contemplation, and wondered what was whirring through his admirably balanced mind. No doubt a deal of skepticism, and yet I knew also that deep down he was quite thrilled about the prospect of this man's returning to test his deductive powers and skill.

I was nowhere close to being so joyful, as even after three years I still smarted under the indignity of being lured away under false pretences, and knowing that my absence had ensured that my companion only narrowly escaped death by the man's hands.

"I understand your misgivings, Doctor Watson," Kirk was continuing, glancing nervously at his companion. "But this is the only way, and we have…how much time, Spock?"

"Six minutes, fifteen-point-three seconds."

"Six minutes, gentlemen," the man continued, and I saw a glint of growing desperation be swiftly hidden under an easy demeanor. "Let me put it like this, Mr. Holmes," he included my friend with a gesture, "I'm not asking you to believe us."

Holmes hid a laugh in a rather ungainly snort. "I am glad you do not deem us so gullible, Mr. Kirk, for I assure you I am far from convinced."

"What then are you asking of us," I interjected, "if not to believe you?"

"To _trust_ us, Doctor," Mr. Spock answered for them both. "It is the only logical option open to you, as the situation stands."

"Watson, a moment?" Holmes beckoned me from my seat, and we stood in the bay window to talk. Rain beat against the pane behind us, causing it to creak and groan enough to sufficiently mask our conversation from listening ears.

"I don't like it, Holmes, any of it," I muttered, conscious of the intense dark gaze and the equally unswerving bright one across the room fixed upon our persons.

"Nor do I, my dear fellow, but I do pride myself upon being a judge of human nature. And I should swear my career on the fact that they are not intentionally lying to us," my friend said pensively, unashamedly challenging the inquisitive gazes with his own equally formidable one. I took a bit of perverse pleasure in seeing the younger man flush slightly and turn his attention to his companion.

"Intentionally?"

"There are three possibilities, Doctor. One, they are lying, and doing it far better than any man I have ever met: namely, enough that I am unable to perceive that they are, which I highly doubt. Two, they truly believe that what they are saying is the truth, regardless of what is actually reality."

"Madness, you mean. It seems unlikely, Holmes."

"I concur, Doctor. Then the only remaining option, the most likely one, is that they are telling the truth, and that it is indeed the truth. Frankly, I find that to be the most probable scenario."

I stared at him in amazement. "You cannot profess to believe them!"

"I would phrase it more accurately as I do not _dis_ believe them," my companion replied with a thin smile. "Who are we, Watson, to tell what may happen so far into our futures? We have both seen and heard things that can never be told to the general public, for they are too inexplicable to be credited - and yet, you and I both know they occurred, eh? And besides, my dear fellow," he added, sobering, "you are aware of the paths my mind takes when boredom of this magnitude is upon me. Would you prefer I remain hibernating in our rooms, not accepting the diversion offered to me now, however ludicrous it may be, and instead permit my mind to retrogress to old habits?"

We both knew which 'habits' he was referencing, one in particular, and for that reason alone if no other I nodded reluctantly. Holmes clapped my shoulder and turned to face our visitors, who looked up at us with expectation.

"Gentlemen, the good Doctor and I are at your disposal," he stated magnanimously. "But once we are settled, wherever that may be, then I believe we deserve considerably more detailed explanations than you have seen fit to grant us."

"Agreed," Kirk exclaimed, obviously relieved that we would be cooperative. "Then we've got to move, now, or we'll be stuck here for another twenty-four hours."

"Watson and I are adept at the art of packing within a short time period," Holmes shot over his shoulder, stuffing his tobacco-pouch into his pocket along with his high-powered magnifying lens.

"That will not be necessary," Mr. Spock answered, re-securing the odd tri-corder device within his coat. "We have…machines, I believe you would term them, capable of replicating any necessity you might have, including attire."

"And you'll agree that those clothes will stand out in our time; if you like, we can fit you with something a bit more twenty-third-century," Kirk added with a grin, tugging meaningfully at his cravat.

"We have exactly three minutes, thirty-four seconds, Captain," his companion informed, striding purposefully toward the door and descending the stairs without a further glance. Holmes raised an eyebrow, snatched his hat, muttering that hats were personal items that could not be indiscriminately replaced 'just like that,' and bounded after him, leaving the younger man and me staring at each other.

A hint of a grin tugged at the corners of Kirk's mouth, and he gestured politely - or perhaps warily - for me to precede him. "Bones is going to have a fit about there being _two_ of them now," I heard him mutter, before he flashed me what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile. "It's only in the alley across the street, Doctor. Shall we?"

Taken aback at the speed with which this drama was unfolding, I hesitated for a fractional moment before following in my friend's footsteps toward the rain-drenched pavement below. And as I informed our landlady that we would be absent until further notice, I could only hope that we would not regret the events to which we were subjecting ourselves.

* * *

_Planet Aeternus, Surface_

_Stardate 3955.9_

The Portal glowed for a minute in incandescent brilliance, and then the familiar swirl of blue-purple energy emanations began inside the archway. He counted ten seconds before four figures suddenly appeared, landing with various thuds on blessedly solid ground.

"Jim! It's about doggoned time!"

"Status, Bones?" Kirk's answer to the worried greeting was a reassuring hand on the physician's shoulder while instinctively glancing up at the sky, even though the _Enterprise_ was not visible to them.

"Ship entering the sector at Warp Six," he replied shortly. "Scotty said to get the heck back up there…not in those words exactly, but you get the idea."

Spock raised an eyebrow at the muttered expletive the Captain released before palming his communicator. " _Enterprise_ , this is the Captain. Five to beam up."

"Five to what?" one of the newcomers inquired sharply, grey eyes peering eagerly about in a mixture of incredulity and curiosity. The other man only looked slightly nauseated and dazed, but apparently all right enough; he'd check them both over and give full physicals once they were all aboard and not trying to get the _Enterprise_ blown to the Galactic Barrier by a madman from the Past.

"Just stand as still as you can, and prepare yourselves for a shock," he informed the Englishmen sympathetically. _And an upset stomach_ , he didn't feel it was necessary to add.

Already yanking at his cravat, Kirk stepped into place beside his First Officer, who was already in position, hands clasped behind his back. "Energize, Mr. Kyle."

McCoy peripherally heard a very startled, obviously very British, "What the _devil_ …?" before the humming faded into the familiar sparkle of the transporter.

* * *

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in orbit around Aeternus_

_Stardate 3955.95_

Kirk was off the platform before the others had even finished materializing, punching buttons and shouting into the communications system.

"Raise shields. Mr. Scott, I'm going to need all the speed you can give me. Bridge, go to yellow alert. We don't want him to know we're ready for him."

_"Yellow alert, aye sir. Course?"_

"Hold your position, Mr. Sulu. Uhura, get me communications with the planet's surface immediately and warn the _Reliant_ to raise shields. Mr. Spock and I will be right up. Have a yeoman meet me on the Bridge with uniform tunics, I’ll not face this man in a blasted costume."

Spock shed his coat, hat, and constricting tie as he descended the transporter pad; thankfully the two Englishmen were far too preoccupied with their surroundings and residual dizziness from the transporter to notice his ears. "Captain, if that ship is the _Dracone_ –"

Kirk strode toward the doors without a backward glance, sending his hat twirling to land in the pile on the floor and flinging his cravat and jacket after it. "If she is, then we have to lure her away from _Aeternus_ , Mr. Spock. We can't just warp out of here with all speed and leave only a science vessel to defend the most dangerous historical discovery in the universe against who knows what!" he shot over his shoulder, voice increasing in volume as he finished. "Bones, take care of our guests, they're probably a little disoriented."

"Now there's the understatement of the century," McCoy muttered as the doors swished shut behind the two senior officers. He turned to see the taller of the men staring about him in wide-eyed disbelief, and the other looking scarcely less astonished at his surroundings but a little woozy.

"Wellll, gentlemen," he drawled, amused at the taller man's apparently eager acceptance of everything he saw. "Welcome to the _Enterprise_."

Oh good grief, the man had eyebrows like Spock's, and they were inclining his direction now. "Doctor…?"

He grinned. "Leonard McCoy, at your service. I guess you're Sherlock Holmes? You can get down from there now," he added, seeing that the men were still in position on the transporter pad.

"Oh…" the other physician muttered unsteadily, putting out a hand to retain his balance when he first attempted to move.

"All right, old fellow?" Holmes asked solicitously.

"What the deuce _was_ that?"

"It's called a transporter, Doctor Watson," McCoy answered with a rueful scowl. "Scrambles the molecules the body's made of and reassembles 'em on the other end. Ghastly thing, if you ask me."

"I am…inclined to agree with your assessment," the other replied wryly, shaking his head as he descended.

"Personally, I found the experience to be quite…invigorating," the detective declared, peering curiously at the multitude of buttons and flashing lights on the transporter console. "What does this do?" he inquired eagerly, long finger hovering over a flashing green button.

"Well, sir, it –"

"Kyle!" McCoy barked in annoyance. "You know we can't give them technology that could change their history! And besides, we don't have time. Come with me, you two."

The young transporter operator was obviously regarding the visitors with something appearing disturbingly like grade-school hero-worship, and McCoy lost no time in rolling his eyes and motioning the newcomers toward the door, which caused both men to jump slightly as it moved unexpectedly. "Doctor Watson, you look a little peaky," he ventured as they moved into the corridor.

He received only a puzzled look. "Peaky?"

"Um…pale, nauseated?"

"Oh. Yes, just slightly, that infernal device…good _heavens_!"

McCoy followed his shocked gaze toward the approaching blue-clad science personnel and tried not to laugh; no doubt the Starfleet uniforms for women displayed a bit more skin than Victorian-era men were accustomed to seeing on a woman.

"You'll get used to it," he drawled with a smirk as they continued past the quizzical ensigns. "Might even get to _enjoy_ it, too.”

"Really, sir!" The reply was made of pure scandalized outrage, and he coughed to cover his amusement at the staid morality of that bygone era.

“Look, I get this is all a huge change, believe me. But things are different now, and we don’t tell women what they can and can’t do anymore. I’ll not have either of you saying or doing otherwise while you’re here, understand?"

Before either could response, the corridor erupted into wailing klaxons and red lights, so suddenly that both Englishmen jumped in surprise. _"Battle stations. All hands, battle stations,"_ the communications system blared in the Captain's voice, and crew members began rushing to their posts around them. _"This is not a drill. Doctor McCoy, report to the Bridge immediately with our new passengers."_

"This bedlam cannot possibly indicate something agreeable about to occur," Holmes muttered, though frankly he appeared more excited than alarmed about the fact.

"You bet your bottom credit it doesn't," McCoy growled. "Hold it, stop here. This is a turbolift, gents. Basically it's a glorified lift – you do have those, don't you? – that goes sideways as well as up-and-down. Hold onto these handles. And your stomachs," he added wickedly as the door closed. "Bridge."


	8. Chapter Eight

**_Chapter Eight_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, breaking orbit around Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.1_

The momentary sensation of dizziness from the transportation device dissipated quickly in the face of so many new, equally startling, sensations, and by the time we had reached what the other physician termed the Bridge, obviously so termed on this vessel the same as it would be on a water-bound one, the temporary nausea had faded.

Holmes himself was inspecting the interior of the lift with more curiosity and less alarm than I thought the situation warranted, but the ride was short, and smoother than the few lifts in which I had ever ridden, and in a matter of seconds the doors again opened of their own accord and I stepped out behind my friend and Dr. McCoy.

My first impression was that of controlled chaos, but soon I perceived that, while the scene was indeed busy, the drama was being carried out in what looked to be military efficiency. A trifle more relaxed than I would have expected for a battle mode, but effective enough.

These observations took second place to the immediate, however, as a sudden jolt shook the entire room apparently at its foundations, similar to a small earthquake, and all personnel grabbed the nearest object to hand to steady themselves.

The other physician gave vent to a rather colourful oath, but kept his balance without assistance. Holmes had clutched me with one hand and a nearby railing with the other, and kept us both on our feet.

"Hard about!" The Captain – for it was obvious that part of his story at least was true – was shouting. "Damage reports!"

"What the blue blazes happened to negotiation?" McCoy shouted, moving toward a central chair and apparently forgetting about my friend and myself.

A familiar tall figure turned from a station at the other side of the room, ridiculously calm in what was obviously a crisis. He now was wearing the blue shirt which I had seen in one of the photographs we had seen in Baker Street, whereas the Captain had changed into yellow sometime before our arrival. "Obviously, Doctor, the leak in Starfleet Headquarters is more extensive and in a higher rank than we originally thought. They opened fire on us without hails and without warning, apparently bent on reaching Aeternus and using the Portal. I believe we may assume that Captain Brust is no longer commanding the vessel."

As the man turned back toward his station, profile toward us, I admit to the inexcusable rudeness of my jaw dropping to hit my collar, but in my defense I believe the reaction was not unreasonable.

Beside me, Holmes whistled softly. "I believe I am now aware of our Mr. Spock’s reasons for refusing to give our landlady his hat, Watson. I suspected something at the time from his continual usage of the word 'human' in reference to all present but himself, and yet..."

"But…what in –"

"We'll explain it all later, Doctor, I promise you," McCoy called back, grinning despite the situation at our rather obvious discomfiture. "Don't let it scare you."

"I don't care how long it would take to reboot afterwards!" Center stage, Kirk was snapping orders into what obviously was some sort of communications device on the arm of a raised chair. "We can't let him use that Portal! Shut it down, _now_!"

"Captain, if they are unable to reboot the Guardian for a period of several days, then that means we may have to discover an alternate way in which to return these men to their own time periods," Mr. Spock spoke calmly.

I shared an uneasy glance with Holmes, but not knowing exactly what they were talking about we both wisely kept silent, and allowed them to do their work in the ways in which they were expert.

Kirk shot us one uncertain look, and then I saw steel harden in his eyes as a decision was reached. "Do it, Langstrom. We'll keep the _Dracone_ off your back if we can. Hard to port, Mr. Sulu!"

Another jolt shook the room, and I saw sparks shoot out of a counter nearby. To his credit, the man stationed there only held up an arm to protect his head, and doggedly kept his seat.

The Captain glanced up for a moment, pointing at us. "Bones, get them out of sight of the viewscreen. If the _Dracone_ hails us we don't want him to know who we've got on board yet. And for heaven's sake both of you hold onto something – if you get killed our whole future might dissolve underneath us!"

This last, delivered to Holmes and myself, was not encouraging, but the relatively calm reassurance of the crusty physician coming back towards us seemed to counterbalance effectively. "Keep a good grip on that railing, and don't move and don't ask questions, no matter what you see," he informed us, levity vanished in the face of what was transpiring.

"Captain," the cool voice from across the room ventured, leaning over a railing to speak to the younger man, "If we _are_ put on ship-to-ship, Morbus will need only to look at our uniforms to effectively deduce whom exactly we have on board. Mr. Holmes was able to deduce from our waistcoats in London that we were not of his time period; it is unlikely that our incomplete uniform change will deceive this man now."

Kirk was about to reply when a light blinked on the panel beside his chair. He depressed a button. "Doctor Langstrom, are you still there?"

" _Affirmative,_ Enterprise _. Captain, we haven't gotten even close to figuring out the programming on this Portal in the months we've been here, and it's not programmed to inform us about the consequences of a total shut-down! A complete reboot could do irreparable damage to its programming…it could be weeks before we got it up and running again, and there’s no guarantee we could properly reboot it at all! I can’t sanction this!"_

"I did not _ask_ you to sanction it, I _ordered_ you to shut it down. Starfleet already discussed this possibility with you before we arrived, Langstrom, and we agreed if it were a last resort you had the knowledge banks of the thing to help you find a method to reboot. At this point, we have no choice; if that man gets hold of that device he can change any part of history he chooses and it will tear the timestream apart at the seams. Shut it _down_. _Enterprise_ out."

I had marveled at the youth of the man, when in our flat he had described the incredible power of the vessel he commanded, and wondered at what sort of organization would permit such responsibility to be given to so young a man, and one so volatile. Now, it was clearly demonstrated that despite his youth the Captain knew exactly what he was doing and knew exactly how to get it done in the most efficient and rapid manner. This was not a man I should like to cross, in battle or otherwise.

"Captain, the _Dracone_ has armed its phaser banks again!" The speaker, a young Eastern fellow with a sharp eye and no-nonsense air, called out from the front of the Bridge.

Kirk's calm exuded confidence, and I could see several nearby crew members relax perceptibly. "Forward shields at maximum, evasive maneuvers, delta-alpha pattern. Uhura, any answers on the ship-to-ship?"

For the first time I noticed the dark-skinned woman to our right, obviously a competent officer in her own standing in this time period. Perhaps that was one good thing amongst the alarming changes we had already perceived in this time, a dropping of boundaries and prejudices that the world could well do without.

"None, sir," she replied. “I can tell they are receiving us, but they’ve chosen to not respond. I’ve done all I can, Captain.”

"Captain, they have locked target on our engines and shields; it is obvious they intend to cripple us enough to learn what our purpose here was, not to destroy us,” Mr. Spock added, without glancing up from his station.

I observed Holmes taking the details of the scene in slowly, his eyes flitting from one man or woman to the next, from counters to flashing lights to equipment whose purpose I could only guess at, and finally back to me, with a look of restrained curiosity. But at Mr. Spock's last statement, he stepped forward a pace.

"He is toying with you, Captain," my friend declared decisively. "That is how his organization worked even in my century; intimidation until capitulation. He is quite ruthless; make no mistake, he _will_ destroy you. But he enjoys the challenge, the thrill of the game, before he is prepared to strike the final blow."

The Captain glared, but not truly at us, and gave a curt nod before whirling his chair about at a call from the front of the Bridge.

"Phasers firing, Captain!"

Simultaneously, the room rocked at its foundations again, sending half the crew members, as well as Holmes and myself, sprawling on the floor, and one of the large workstations erupted into a shower of sparks and what looked to be electric currents. I heard a man's and a woman's screams, and then Holmes was scrambling back to his feet, extending a hand to me.

The other physician was already dashing to see to the injured, and behind me I heard a woman's calm voice calling for emergency medical personnel. I was much impressed, and though Holmes only watched in silence I could see he was as well, at the efficient and rapid way the crew reacted under fire (literally). In the space of fifteen seconds uninjured men and women were scrambling back to their places, and after helping the Captain to his feet Mr. Spock bent over the front console, which was sparking periodically under the young men’s capable hands.

"Shields down to forty-four percent, Captain," the man reported, long-leggedly leaping back to his own station.

"Scotty, I need auxiliary power to the shields," Kirk barked into his chair-arm.

_"You’ve got all I can give ye, Captain!"_

"Not good enough, Mr. Scott. I need more power, and I need it now."

 _"Aye, sir, I'll re-route secondary systems but I canna guarantee the circuits'll hold for long…"_ The resigned affirmative surprised me, but from the unresponsive looks of the Bridge crew it apparently was a familiar exchange.

"Mr. Scott is correct, however, Captain," Mr. Spock was reporting, turning to face the shorter man. "We cannot simply allow them to destroy or disable us; there is no other ship in this quadrant capable of stopping Morbus, and that would be without the men we now carry aboard. If the _Enterprise_ is lost, then so is Aeternus and the Guardian. You _must_ return fire."

"We already discussed this possible scenario in the briefing! There are at least three hundred innocent people on that ship, Mr. Spock!" McCoy exclaimed fiercely from where he was caring for the injured crewman.

"Captain." The taller man stepped down to eye level and indicated the large window at the front of the room, where we had been looking at what I assumed were stars and what appeared to be an enormous structure similar to the one we had been shown in Baker Street, hanging suspended I knew not how over a small purplish ball - the planet, I supposed. Mr. Spock's voice dropped slightly, but still was audible. "Jim, one man cannot run a starship, nor would this man come into battle without sufficient allies among the crew to work the ship efficiently. There may be innocents, yes – but not all of them are so. And I must remind you, Captain, that if we do not return Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson to their own time period, unharmed, then our own history will be irreversibly changed. They _must_ _not take us_."

Another jolt rocked the ship, and some sort of warning alarm began sounding.

 _"Captain, one more hit like that and we'll be dead in space!"_ an obviously Scottish voice practically wailed over the communications.

Kirk glanced at the impassive man he had called a friend, and who obviously was a trusted officer as well, from what we could see, and suddenly executed a smart about-face. "Mr. Sulu, lock phasers on the _Dracone_. Target their Engineering section."

"Phasers locked on target, sir."

"Fire all phasers."


	9. Chapter Nine

**_Chapter Nine_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in battle over Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.2_

"Captain, transmission from the planet," Uhura spoke up suddenly, holding on to the lip of the counter as the ship banked sharply, spiraling out of the way of a phaser blast. "Their first attempt to shut down the Guardian has failed. They are unable to shut down the Portal without seriously endangering its core programming; they can give us no guarantee that it will ever work again if they do. It apparently has some safeguards built in that they weren't aware of until now when they made the attempt and it resisted the shutdown."

Kirk glanced up briefly to acknowledge, and then turned back to his First Officer. "I was afraid of that," he muttered, more to thin air than to the expressionless Vulcan.

"You were bound to attempt it, and in fact were following Starfleet orders to do so," the other pointed out. "Still, to lose so valuable a tool of history permanently would be a tragedy, and should only be used as a last resort."

"Wanting me to pull another option out of my hat, eh?"

"That metaphor is a little mixed, Jim," McCoy needled in an amused undertone as he passed, directing the gurneys to the turbolift. "Second-degree burns, some tissue damage," he added reassuringly in answer to the Captain's concerned look. "No fatalities. _Yet_. I'll be in Sickbay seeing to the lower decks; try to not shake the ship around too much?"

"There is only one way, Captain," Spock's calm voice drained some of the tension as Kirk nodded mechanically to the physician, "to prevent this man from beaming down to the planet in an attempt to use the Portal."

"Which is?"

Both eyebrows inclined, in the Vulcan equivalent to a matter-of-fact shrug. "To present him with a more attractive target."

"You mean show _us_ to him, or more specifically _me_ ," the newcomer spoke up from across the room, obviously having been eavesdropping on the entire exchange.

"Precisely."

"Hold it," Kirk interposed. "You two are under our protection. We can't let anything happen to you." Arms folded, he turned to face the Victorian, refusing to back down despite the difference in height. "I'm not about to use you, and by extension my _ship_ , as a target for a lunatic."

"Captain, unfortunately this man is quite sane, if our data are accurate."

"Mr. Spock is correct," Holmes added, moving down into the central area without waiting for permission, and ignoring the annoyed look he received from the Captain. "And he is correct also in assuming that the sight of me is probably the only thing that could catapult Moriarty into acting irrationally; no other influence would make him break off his goals other than a shock to his complacency. He is not expecting to see me, and that might be enough to give us some sort of advantage. You said this yourself in our rooms in Baker Street, Captain. The element of surprise may at this juncture be your best and only tactical advantage."

Hesitating, Kirk frowned, staring at an indefinable spot on the floor while he considered the odds. Finally he blew out a long breath. "I don't like it, but…"

"It must be done, Captain, or we risk destroying these men's only way of getting home, as well as the only way of returning this Morbus to his, and restoring our own time period to its former condition," the Vulcan pointed out quietly.

"You mean we might not be able to return, if that…gateway?...we came through is shut down?" the Doctor asked, edging up next to his friend. To his credit, he appeared calm enough about the idea, though Kirk saw the detective lightly touch his arm in reassurance just the same.

"Not on a moment's notice, Doctor, no," the Captain admitted reluctantly. "It's a worst-case scenario, certainly, but if this man so much as steps foot through that Portal we all could cease to exist. He could land at any point in Earth’s past, or any other planet’s past, for that matter, and the entire timestream of the universe will change. Our only other option for preventing that –"

"Is to use us as bait. I presume once you allow him to sight us here with you, you have the capability to retreat in short order?" Holmes inquired.

Bristling slightly at the presumptuous air of the Englishman but realizing that, like him, Holmes was accustomed to planning his own life and taking his own risks, Kirk nodded.

Another warning blast rocked the Bridge, throwing anyone seated from their chairs and tumbling the four men in the center into a tangled heap on the decking. Spock was the first to extricate himself, inwardly grimacing distastefully at the intimate contact, and in three long strides had returned to his station.

"Return fire!" Kirk bellowed, hauling himself upright with the aid of the railing.

"Shields down to twenty-seven percent, sir," Sulu replied, scrambling back into his chair and feverishly working at his console. “Captain, the port shields are buckling, one good hit to the nacelle and we’ll be venting plasma too badly to make a quick getaway anywhere.”

"Then I suggest you do what you have to, Captain," Holmes finally managed to gasp out when once he'd caught his breath.

"Direct hit, Captain," Sulu reported after the _Enterprise_ phasers had fired in response, "but their shields are still fully operational. No great damage to vital sections of the ship."

"Hail them," Kirk answered resignedly, moving back to his chair and turning it to face the main viewscreen. "Signal that we are breaking off hostilities." He gestured for the Englishmen to remain where they were, close to the command chair, and waited, one finger crooked thoughtfully over his compressed lips.

"No response, sir," Uhura finally said, turning slightly to deliver the news.

"But they are receiving us?"

"Yes, Captain."

Kirk glanced at their visitors, and the frown lines in his forehead lightened slightly. "Do you think he would recognize your voice, after three years?"

Holmes smiled mirthlessly. "If I still hear his occasionally in my darkest nights, I am fairly certain he will remember mine, Captain. Shall I?"

A curt nod. "Give Mr. Holmes an open channel to the _Dracone_ , Uhura. Audio only for now." He gestured to the star-speckled viewscreen. "Just face that and talk; it'll pick up your voice just fine. Let's see if we can surprise him into showing himself. Wait for my order."

The crew waited expectantly, but no additional weapons fire was in evidence; further confirmation that the _Dracone_ did not intend to destroy them. "Mr. Spock, keep an eye on those readings," Kirk said, lowering his hand to grip the arm-rest. "If they engage a transporter, I want to know about it immediately. At twenty-seven percent shields, they could get through at this point with a signal modulator."

The Vulcan looked slightly perturbed at the very idea that he would not have informed the Captain immediately. "Naturally, sir."

Kirk allowed himself a small smile. "Mr. Sulu, Mr. Matthews, begin plotting a course to take us out of this system, and prepare to engage at Warp Seven on my mark. Uhura, open channel."

"Channel open, sir, and they are receiving us."

"Good. _Dracone_ , this is Captain James T. Kirk of the _Enterprise_. Commander Morbus – or is it Captain Morbus, now? – let's not…play like we don't each know what the other is doing here, shall we?"

"No reply, Captain," Uhura spoke softly.

Kirk shifted in his chair, sitting up straighter. "Commander, I have an old friend of yours here that you might like to meet," he said, purposely keeping his tone playful. "Go ahead," he added under his breath, and after raising a curious eyebrow at the novelty of speaking into thin air, Holmes took a breath and began.

"My dear Professor, may I say how charming it is to discover you did not perish at the base of the Reichenbach Falls? And I must say, this is quite an over-achievement, even for your talents. A space-ship, really?"

"Captain…receiving a transmission!" Uhura suddenly voiced, obviously taken aback at the speed of the answer. "Visual and audio, sir."

Kirk shot a triumphant glance at his impassive First Officer, and then turned back toward the viewscreen with a tiny smirk. "On screen."


	10. Chapter Ten

**_Chapter Ten_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in combat over Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.3_

To outward appearances, my friend remained quite calm – almost remarkably expressionless, though I who knew him intimately could see the tightening of his strong jaw and the barely-perceptible nervousness couched in his eyes – as the window in front of us shimmered suddenly and then faded into a recognizable scene: a room similar to the one in which we were now standing, complete with workstations and seats, filled with the same basic (and quite garish) colours as that of the _Enterprise_.

There was, however, one very noticeable exception, and as the command chair swiveled to afford us a perfect view of its occupant I could not repress a shudder of loathing at the sight of the familiar domed forehead, the hooded eyes – and even that horridly reptilian trademark movement of his long neck. Professor James Moriarty was indeed alive and well (not surprising, for I suspected medical technology in this time thought nothing of performing minor miracles on a daily basis), if looking somewhat incongruous in that grossly bizarre golden uniform.

The tension in my friend's posturing relaxed of a sudden, as if he were more relieved to learn the truth than nervous about the encounter. Holmes only stood, arms folded, and surveyed his old nemesis to his satisfaction. "Well, well," was all he remarked after a tense pause. "Professor. This century appears to agree with you better than the nineteenth did."

The man's oscillating head moved upwards in acknowledgment. "Sherlock Holmes. At the risk of giving more dramatic dialogue to your biographer, I must admit I was not expecting to meet you here, sir."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kirk glance incredulously at his First Officer, obviously expecting the men to be openly antagonistic and hostile; how little they really knew of our time's sense of propriety and fair-play was anyone's guess. But I knew Holmes, and thereby Moriarty, better than most; while they were on opposite sides of the law, theirs had been one of those dancingly brilliant conflicts that, had the lines been drawn a pace or two a different direction, could have put them both on the same side rather than the opposites. Horror of the Professor's depravity, by Holmes's own admission, had long since in the detective's mind been submerged under admiration for his skill, and if I was not much mistaken the feeling, for lack of a better word, was quite mutual. (1)

"I, on the other hand, _was_ expecting an encounter," my friend replied coolly. "Anticipating it, in fact. One might say it is apparently several hundred years overdue."

A mirthless smile, more sinister than the darkest scowl in that lined face, punctuated the man's next sentence. "Since I doubt you hurled yourself into that special anomaly that was the Reichenbach Falls, Holmes, I may safely assume you were _fetched_ for the purpose of thwarting my plans of controlling this magnificently advanced universe. Ah, Doctor Watson," he added, his eyes flitting to me for the first time. "I had entertained hopes that Moran would have better employed that air-rifle of his from the top of the Falls, but he always was a sentimental fool when it came to his fellow soldiers. No matter. You are here, gentlemen, and so history appears to repeat itself."

"Indeed," Holmes observed mildly. "Complete with your organization on the verge of disintegration, and a stand-off between key players in the drama? At the risk of quoting the good Doctor's melodramatic account of our last meeting - there can be but one outcome."

Silently, those hooded eyes fastened upon me first, and then moved slowly around the Bridge to light on every man or woman present. Finally they flicked back to Holmes, in a rapid motion designed to startle and intimidate.

Fortunately, Sherlock Holmes was not so easily cowed. Despite his obvious enjoyment of the verbal fencing, he was well aware of the situation's gravity, and acted accordingly. Our comrades from the future stood silently and permitted him to take the helm of the conversation. "You know, of course, why I am here, Professor?"

"Indeed." Solemnly, the man blinked twice, in carefully measured motions, and assumed a bored air. "Though I wish you more luck in my extermination than you have had to date."

"Commander," Kirk spoke up, moving to the front console and leaning upon it with one hand. I saw the young man manning it glance down, and then back up at the screen. "You understand that I have orders to escort you away from the planet Aeternus before we resolve this matter." Kirk straightened, moving back toward my friend, and I saw the young man’s hands casually inch across his console, eyes never leaving the scene before him.

Moriarty smiled tolerantly, moving his head to one side. "My dear Captain Kirk, if it is your precious timeline being disrupted that you are so concerned about, then pray let me assure you I am quite content with gaining control of _this_ century, and have no desire to deal with the petty archaisms of my native one." The cool voice filled the small room, nearly freezing my blood at the amused derision it contained. "I have no intention of using that Portal of yours. For _any_ purpose."

The window went blank, resuming its depiction of stars and, below, the purple-grey surface of what I trusted to be the planet we had been on.

Uneasy at what I assumed was a veiled threat of some kind in that statement, though I could not quite put my finger upon what, I watched as Holmes's dark brows knit suddenly. At the same instant I saw realization of the double meaning flash across the formerly expressionless face of Mr. Spock, and as if understanding somehow that something was wrong Kirk whirled his chair towards him.

"What is he –"

"Captain, the _Dracone_ is powering up their phaser banks!" Mr. Sulu warned, fingers dancing across the flat surface in front of him.

"Evasive maneuvers. We can't take another direct hit."

"They are not targeting us, Captain," Mr. Spock said resignedly, turning grave-faced from his station. "Their phasers are locking onto the Time Portal."

A look of horror erupted on the Captain's face, and he punched the armrest of his chair. "Get me ship to planetside, Uhura!"

"Already trying, Captain. Something is blocking our transmissions. I can't even hail the science vessel!"

"Sulu, concentrate all phaser fire on their weapons systems," Kirk said tightly. "Full power."

"Phasers ready, Captain."

"Fire."

For a moment, dead silence fell over the scene, and then the ship rocked once more with the impact of what was obviously return fire. Holmes's arm kept me from being tumbled roughly to the floor, but others were not so lucky. As alarms began to sound around us the Bridge erupted with blue-clad figures from the lift (judging from what I had seen, I assumed that was the uniform colour assigned to medical personnel), including the physician we had met earlier.

He took one look at the scene and gave vent to a very fine assortment of oaths as he jumped down to help the young Mr. Sulu back to his feet. The fellow was rubbing his head dazedly, and a few other scattered men and women appeared pretty badly shaken up, but the Captain was already back in his seat and his First Officer back bending over his station.

"Their shields remain relatively unaffected, Captain; down by less than ten percent. He has modified them somehow; no starship, not even the _Enterprise_ , could remain in such condition after a space battle of this magnitude," Mr. Spock reported grimly. "By that line of reasoning, it is logical to assume he has found a way to easily block our communications."

"He was considered the most brilliant mathematician of our time," Holmes interjected, moving out of the way of a young blonde nurse. "I daresay three years is time enough for him to assimilate new information and equations to use for his own gain."

"The _Dracone_ 's phasers are locking onto the Portal again, Captain," Mr. Sulu grunted, punching a button.

"Hail them," Kirk barked, swiveling his chair toward the large window and clenching one hand on the arm-rest of his chair. "Morbus, there are fifteen of the Federation's most brilliant scientists down there, and the most important historical discovery of our time. If you truly are as smart as they say, surely you realize the foolishness of destroying such a thing!" Receiving no answer, his other hand clenched. "Don't do this, Commander!"

The screen remained motionless, and no answer was forthcoming. Holmes glanced at me, seemingly unsurprised by Moriarty's ruthlessness, and sighed through his nose. Then the true impact of what the man was about struck me as with a tangible blow – if he succeeded in destroying that gateway, then Holmes and I would be stranded here indefinitely…possibly forever.

The thought turned me sick and cold, ice spreading all the way from my face into my stomach, and I was again surprised to see that Mr. Spock was regarding me curiously. Flushing at the idea that my thoughts had been betrayed upon my features, I hastily schooled my expression into blankness and glared at him defiantly, after which he merely inclined his head and turned back to his Captain.

Kirk glanced up at the two blue-clad figures who somehow had without anyone really noticing moved to support him on either side.

"One thing you should know before you make a decision, Captain," Mr. Spock said calmly.

"What is it?"

"We are reading only fifty-two life signs aboard the _Dracone_ ," the man reported quietly. "He has no doubt already disposed of any innocents among his crew."

McCoy flinched at the knowledge of so many deaths. "Then she's no more than a _pirate_ ship now," he added, folding his arms and scowling at the silhouette outside the view-window.

Sulu's chair swirled our direction. " _Dracone_ 's phasers locked on the Portal, Captain, and fully armed."

Kirk's head snapped up in split-second decision, and his slouching manner dissipated into sharp tension. "Load photon torpedoes, Mr. Sulu." He glanced up at his two companions, who only looked back at him, and then he spared Holmes and me one reassuring nod.

"Torpedoes loaded and locked, sir."

"Full spread. Blow that ship out of the stars, Mr. Sulu."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) This is if we consider VALL to be Canon and not FINA; there are far too many plot holes left wide open and glaring in both FINA and EMPT, and so it's never sat well with me the tidbits we get about Moriarty in them. I firmly believe Watson knew far more than he was telling in either those stories or in VALL, and didn't tell us for various reasons. That's why I'm writing this as if Watson knows Moriarty nearly as well as Holmes, at least indirectly.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**_Chapter Eleven_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in combat over Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.3_

Moriarty notwithstanding, I instinctively balked at the idea of destroying that many lives with, apparently literally, the push of a button. Had this century become so callous, I wondered, to yield such power into the hands of individuals? Certainly our time was not prepared for such power of life and death to be awarded to anyone. Then I remembered Dr. McCoy informing us that there had originally been over three hundred occupants of that other vessel, and the subtraction down to the current total was sickening in its implications.

The flooring hummed slightly under our feet, somewhere far below. Suddenly on the window before us exploded a brilliant flash of orange-white light, and the ship rocked slightly.

"Direct hit to weapons systems, Captain," Mr. Spock reported, leaving Kirk's side to inspect his workstation. "They began evasives just before we fired, though we did evidently take them by surprise. No great damage to other areas of the ship. Shields down by another seven percent."

Sulu swiveled slightly in his chair. "She's breaking off now, Captain…phasers either ineffective or no longer locked on target."

Kirk leaned forward in his seat, both hands gripping the armrests and the words shooting from his mouth like ammunition, so rapid was their fire. "Ten degrees starboard. Target their engineering section."

"Torpedoes loaded, sir."

"Fire before she has time to move again."

Mr. Spock was hovering over a strange-looking device at his station, an odd little window that seemed to emit a blueish glow. "We have penetrated their shields, Captain," he reported evenly. "Casualties in the lower decks, impulse power destroyed."

"We are being hailed, Captain," the woman spoke up softly.

Kirk swiveled back to the large window, scowling appropriately. "On visual. Well, Commander. Had enough?" he inquired with what I thought was highly inappropriate braggadocio as the screen shimmered into the sight of a chaotic Bridge.

"Hardly, my dear Captain," Moriarty replied, blinking a greeting at Holmes, who remained standing impassively to my left. "However, you have, by a stroke of that ridiculous Kirk luck that has made your name so famous among 'Fleet cadets, effectively disabled my phaser capability, and even I would not launch a photon torpedo directly at the planet and chance a chain reaction that could destroy all three ships in the vicinity. Shall we try a more…diplomatic approach?"

"Don't trust 'em, Jim," McCoy muttered from over the Captain's head.

"I don't," Kirk returned wryly after muting the connection. "But…we have very few choices, Bones. Our shields are crippled, his phasers are, and there's a very dangerous historical discovery down there that needs us to get the heck out of here. At least stalling will give Scotty some time to repair our shields."

The physician looked a combination of murderous, exasperated, and resigned, and only folded his arms, glaring at everything that so much as returned the look. I liked the man more every moment.

Kirk restored communications. "Agreed," he said finally. "Feed your coordinates to my Transporter Chief, and we will beam you over."

"No, Captain," Moriarty replied calmly. "You will beam over to my ship. I daresay you are not in a position to argue with me," he added when Kirk's face flushed angrily. "Unless the shield readings we are receiving from your vessel are merely a ploy to throw us off the scent, you are unable to withstand another direct hit, much less a torpedo. No, Captain, this will be on my terms."

"I have had some dealings with your _terms_ , Professor," Holmes spoke up at last, a derisive smile twitching at one corner of his mouth. "One of them entailed a very unpleasant trip into the Thames, bound hand and foot."

The domed head shook slightly in a silent spurt of malicious laughter. "You will agree that the circumstances are somewhat different, Mr. Holmes."

My friend snorted. "Hardly."

"You have my assurance, gentlemen, that I wish my ship to incur no more damage than it has at present," the man replied coolly, indicating a nearby workstation, which was sparking at intervals. "And besides this," he continued, eyes gleaming in a predatory glint, "had I wished, I could have transported any of you, any time I wished. Yes, Captain, even through those modulating frequencies your Mr. Spock has been attempting the last ten minutes. It will do you no good, gentlemen, not at such a low power."

"Unfortunately, he is correct, Captain. It is highly likely he has found a way to break through the encryption I placed over the shield modulator, using a dual algorithmic generator or some similar device," Mr. Spock said from behind me as he moved back toward the Captain's chair. "He could hardly have gotten thus far solely through his own ingenuity."

Kirk glanced up at him, and I saw his lips tighten. "I still find that a bit hard to believe," he replied at last to the image of our old nemesis, raising a quizzical eyebrow at the reptilian head.

I saw that tolerant smile widen fractionally, and then the Professor's hand depressed a button on his chair's arm-rest. The next instant, I barely heard two alarmed shouts beside me before the world suddenly shook and shimmered into thousands of fragments, swirling about for a moment before reassembling themselves into a familiar scene – with one exception.

I was now on the Bridge of the other vessel, the _Dracone_ , and Professor Moriarty was smiling benignly down at me.

* * *

_U.S.S. Dracone, in combat over Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.3_

I instinctively took a step in reverse to put my back against a wall, only to find myself seized on either side by two red-shirted men, armed with what I assumed was a handgun of some kind though it differed slightly from the one I had observed Kirk holding in Baker Street. Peripherally I realized the window before us was still on, and the men on the 'ship' I had left were deep in increasingly grave conversation.

"Commander, return that man to my ship at –"

Holmes's voice interrupted Kirk's, breaking angrily over the communications channel and crackling with enough tension to electrify the entire room. "Moriarty, I swear if you touch him, I shall –"

"You shall do nothing of the kind, Holmes, unless you would like a demonstration of the different, highly efficient, methods this century has found with which to _eliminate_ unwanted interference," the Professor answered calmly, motioning for the men to release me and for me to step over beside him.

I refused, and found myself propelled against my will by his two guards. I stumbled slightly, grabbed the arm of the command chair to keep my balance, and then took a step back, straightening myself, as the man smiled up at me, his hooded eyes taking in my appearance in some amusement. "You are looking a trifle nauseated, Doctor; those transporters can be disorienting and especially through our enhanced shields. Shall I have my yeoman bring you anything to drink? She is quite a pretty little thing."

Beyond incensed with the gall of the man, I briefly considered a highly uncouth response (and wondered detachedly if it meant the same thing in this century) but decided one of us at least had to keep the standards of British propriety. Instead I glanced up at the screen before us, and saw Kirk engaged in nearly-silent communication with his First Officer, and Holmes standing belligerently in front of the command chair, glaring murder at his old enemy.

"If it is a bargaining chip you are after, Moriarty, I am not authorized to do so with you," Holmes pointed out, breathing more calmly when I nodded at him to indicate I was unharmed. "Keeping Watson will do you no good whatsoever, for these men are military and know civilians are expendable. You have no hold on this… _Enterprise_." He hesitated only a fraction of a second before the unfamiliar word, but swung into place without a further thought.

"That is very encouraging, thank you," I inserted wryly, and saw the other physician on the window-screen chuckle despite the situation.

Behind him, Kirk shot his chair back around in one swift motion, face grim. "Commander, send that man back to my ship, and we will talk terms."

"My dear Captain – Holmes, do stop glowering in that fashion; it is highly undignified – I have every intention of sending him back," Moriarty drawled calmly. "I merely wished to demonstrate that I do have the power to force your compliance. I shall do so only as a last resort. Now, suppose you and your First Officer, as well as Mr. Holmes, beam over to my ship and share a completely professional and diplomatic discussion of this problem?"

"One, return Dr. Watson immediately, and _then_ we will beam over. Two, my First Officer stays on this ship." Kirk's eyes glinted dangerously as Moriarty raised a thin finger in protest. "You can hardly expect me to leave a crippled starship without a senior officer, Commander, despite what you may or may not have heard about my command and proper regulations. Let us be reasonable. Since my Third is engaged in Engineering at the moment, I'll bring Lieutenant-Commander McCoy here instead."

Thin lips pursed into a whip-dash of a scowl, Moriarty nodded. I was impressed with the title, though unaware of all its implications, given to the physician, though McCoy himself looked considerably less than enthusiastic. And to my surprise the formerly expressionless Mr. Spock leaned over the Captain's chair for a moment, speaking earnestly. I could no longer hear the words, but it was obvious that he was protesting vigorously at being left behind.

"Return Watson now, Professor," Holmes spoke up, and though the words were couched in pleasant tones his eyes were burning holes in the window. "You have my word as an Englishman we shall follow your instructions."

"Admirable sentiments, though the realm has long since fallen," my captor replied, smirking slightly and swiveling his head to perceive my reaction. Seeing none, he made a resigned gesture and turned back to my friend. "As a show of good faith, I shall, Holmes."

And to my surprise, before I could even react he had pressed a button on the arm-rest once more and the by-now sickeningly familiar sensation of slight vertigo swam over and around me. A few seconds later I was catching my balance on Holmes's outstretched hand, and looking incredulously at the equally surprised faces of the men we had so recently become comrades-at-arms with.

I received the business end of two inquisitive eyebrows, a grin of sympathy for my slightly disoriented condition, and a sigh of relief from the three officers, while Holmes released my arm reluctantly and curtly nodded his thanks to his old nemesis.

"Now, you see, gentlemen," the latter spoke up innocently. "I have no intention of compelling you to comply with my requests unless you force me to do so. The four of you will beam over to my ship in exactly five minutes' time, and I would suggest most strenuously that you relinquish any ideas you may have about overpowering my vessel. I assure you I am safeguarded against such measures."

"In my experience, the man does not bluff, Kirk," Holmes said in a low tone. "That is probably the exact and literal truth."

"The coordinates have been fed into your Transporter Room, Captain. I shall expect you in five minutes." Moriarty rose, bowed in staid old-fashioned courtesy, and then the window dissolved into the starry scape once more.

Kirk rose instantly, tugging on the hem of his shirt to straighten it. "Well, gentlemen. Shall we adjourn to the Transporter Room?"

Mr. Spock stood stiffly, watching us move that direction, and then spoke up just as I followed Holmes and the other physician into the lift. "Captain…"

Kirk stepped in after me, turned, and smiled. "We'll be careful, Mr. Spock. But have Scotty monitor us closely just in case."

The tension obvious in the man's tall figure loosened slightly. "Agreed."

The lift doors closed, and for a moment an awkward silence shifted to settle among us. True to form, Holmes's curiosity broke it.

"To deduce the obvious, your First Officer is not human, then," he observed.

Kirk smiled, unoffended by my friend's frank curiosity. "He is half-human, but identifies as Vulcan. His family is from a planet of the same name; the residents are called Vulcans, or occasionally Vulcanians, though that's becoming obsolete now. They are humanoid, but have a variety of physiological differences as you’ve no doubt noted."

"He seems to be a most intriguing individual," my friend mused, glancing at me with a hint of a smile.

"Vulcans are the most brilliant of humanoid species we've encountered in the galaxy," Kirk informed us conversationally. "They're renowned for their intelligence and logic, and you can't ask for a better Science Officer than a Vulcan." He smiled warmly, eyes lighting up with obvious pleasure. "I've got the only one in the whole 'Fleet willing to serve on a primarily human ship."

"And they don't believe in showing emotion," McCoy drawled from the opposite end of the lift, obviously taking great glee in the information for some reason. "Vulcan tradition represses all emotion, considers it an inexcusable weakness to show it. Most of 'em will deny even _having_ emotions. Why, they even punish their older children for laughing, or crying, once they're old enough to know better."

"Sounds rather like the British gentleman's code," I chuckled. “It is simply _not done_.”

The physician hmphed loudly, but regarded us with a bit more curiosity than before. Kirk, on the other hand, gave us a full-blown grin. "That doesn't mean you don't feel, though."

"Of course not. And if I am a judge of character, which I daresay I am, then I believe the same could be said of your First Officer," Holmes finished smugly, stepping out of the lift when the doors opened with a loud swish.

I saw the other two blink, startled, and look at each other, and then McCoy shrugged and followed his Captain out into the corridor. I attempted to keep my eyes diverted as we passed the shockingly-clad ladies, and tried to remember that such indecency apparently had become acceptable and inoffensive in this time period, but just the same I was much relieved upon our arrival in what the others had called the Transporter Room.

The young man who had been there upon our arrival had been replaced by another figure, stouter and shorter under his brilliant scarlet uniform, and with an amiable, honest, but slightly frazzled-looking face.

"Mr. Spock informed me I was to 'relinquish the shield repair to a subordinate' and do the transport m’self, sir," said he in a lilting Scottish burr – I made a note to corner the man on his ancestry later, if time permitted – when Kirk questioned him as to why he'd left the repair work on the shields to his crew and not himself. "And I do know better than to argue with the man when he sounds like that, sir. Phasers, Captain?"

"We'd better, even if they’ll likely get confiscated when we arrive.” Kirk strapped one of the peculiar-looking handguns into a holder upon his beltline, and then looked apologetically at me as McCoy, more reluctantly, did the same with his weapon. "I'm sorry, gentlemen…but we can't let you have one of these things, until you know what they can do and how to control them. You understand, of course."

Personally I would rather have my revolver, which was still safely stowed in my coat pocket and probably forgotten by the others, but Holmes only nodded and waved airily, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet as we waited for the 'transport' to take place.

"Landing party preparing for transport," the man named Scott spoke into yet another communications device, and a familiar calm voice acknowledged from the Bridge.

Holmes looked entirely too enthralled with the idea of meeting his old enemy again. "Let's not keep the Professor waiting, then, Captain."

Despite my misgivings about the safety of this venture, I smiled at the ease with which my friend was adapting to this world, and braced myself for my fourth trip of the day in the infernal machine these people called a Transporter.

"Energize, Scotty."


	12. Chapter Twelve

**_Chapter Twelve_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in combat around Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.4_

"Status of the _Dracone_ 's shields and phaser banks, Mr. Sulu."

The helmsman glanced down instantly, having anticipated the Vulcan's query. "Shields down enough to allow transport lock. Phasers unchanged, sir. Activity in Engineering, but that's to be expected if we hit them there."

"I am aware of it, Mr. Sulu. Continue monitoring all systems. Mr. Scott, status?" the First Officer spoke into the communications on the arm-rest.

_"Preparing to energize, Mr. Spock."_

"Keep a close watch upon them, Mr. Scott, and be prepared for emergency beam-out at a moment's notice." To anyone else, the order was a standard precaution, per regulations when beaming into a danger zone. However, to anyone who had sailed on the _Enterprise_ for any length of time, the tight lines around the Vulcan's dark eyes bespoke of very serious misgivings about the venture.

 _"Energizing…now, sir,"_ Scotty's voice, calm and efficient but drawn-out as he concentrated on his task.

The leather of the chair-arm creaked under the Vulcan's fingers, and he hastily released his grip, (almost) relieved that no one had noticed the lapse in control. But the uneasiness remained, and even increased – highly illogical, which was in itself worrisome as he could not explain the feeling.

Suddenly Sulu pounced on his console, jolting the First Officer from the command chair in an instant. "Mr. Spock, the _Dracone_ is firing up its warp engines!"

Exactly three-tenths of one second was all the time necessary for his brain to make the connections, and he rammed a hand down upon the intercom button so hard it cracked, nearly snapping off in his hand. He made a mental side note to summon Maintenance before the Captain saw it and 'had' what McCoy would call 'a fit' about his precious chair being damaged, but that thought did not subtract any time from his immediate response.

"Mr. Scott, is the transport complete?" he demanded, making the conscious effort to not raise his voice or increase the speed of his diction.

_"Not quite, sir, I had come trouble gettin' through the –"_

"Don’t complete the transport!" Every eye turned toward the uncharacteristically tense snap and – gods forbid – an actual _contraction_ in his haste? Sudden apprehension palled over the Bridge in a dark cloud. "I repeat, do not transport the Captain and the negotiating party. Hold them in transport until my mark and return them to the ship."

 _"Aye, sir, at once. Holding until your mark."_ He could vaguely hear the Scottish burr of consequential grumbled complaints, but knew Scott was as efficient as a man could be.

"Mr. Spock, the _Dracone_ just jumped to…that can’t be right. Warp Eight!" Sulu called from behind him. “How in the world…”

"Transporter Room, compensate for the collapse of a warp bubble and return the boarding party to the ship when ready.”

 _“Aye, sir.”_ Scott’s voice was sharp with attention, and no little alarm at the new instructions. _“Compensating now, sir. Hold, Bridge.”_

A few tense moments.

“Mr. Scott, do you have them?"

_"A moment, sir. I've got a sure enough lock on them, just a matter of bringing them home now."_

"She's gone, sir," Sulu spoke up quietly, staring at the blank screen before them, broken only by the glimmering of stars.

"As I suspected," he almost fell into the human habit of muttering but corrected the slip in time, speaking aloud. "The entire offer was a ruse. Mr. Sulu, take the conn temporarily."

The turbolift doors closed, leaving the crew staring numbly at a star-filled expanse. "That…that horrible man was going to beam them right into open space," Uhura whispered at last.

Sulu shuddered, taking the command chair with all the eagerness of youthful dreams. "Sure would have. Nice fellow."

* * *

_U.S.S. Enterprise, stationary over Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.4_

As the shimmer-effect of the transportation device faded, I was somewhat startled to see that this room as well was nearly identical to the one aboard the other vessel, the _Enterprise_. Then I perceived two things; one, that this was indeed the _Enterprise_ , for Mr. Scott was still at the controls, and two, that my stomach was in very severe danger of rebelling against the onslaught of swirling particles and heaven only knew what else, my head reeling and dizzy and my insides churning.

In front of me on the platform I saw McCoy fold to one knee, moaning as he clutched his stomach. "Ughhhhh, Scotty," he gasped. "How long did you keep us in there…and why the dickens aren't we on the _Dracone_?"

Holmes raised an eyebrow at me, looking a bit pale himself, and even Kirk appeared slightly off-balance as he put a sympathetic hand on the physician's shoulder. He was about to respond to the blustering Scotsman when the doors opened to admit a tall figure in blue, obviously having hurried from the Bridge.

"Spock, what is this?" the Captain demanded, stepping off the platform.

I offered McCoy my hand, and after bristling for a minute he scrambled to wobbly feet using it as an anchor. "Hate those god-awful things," he muttered, and I heartily agreed. Holmes only looked amusedly at us, obviously more intent on eavesdropping on the two senior officers' conversation.

"Captain, had we completed the transport, you would have beamed to those coordinates – which are at the present moment in the vacuum of deep space," Mr. Spock intoned matter-of-factly.

Kirk's eyes widened.

"The _Dracone_ fired up its warp engines as transport began, moving to Warp Eight before your patterns completely buffered," the First Officer continued soberly. "You are extremely fortunate, all of you, that the transport had not yet begun to materialize in space, or your patterns would have been lost when the ship jumped to warp."

"Aye, and ye have Mr. Spock’s quick reflexes for that, Captain, he stopped the transport just in time,” Mr. Scott interjected gravely. "I couldn’t reverse the transport until I was sure the warp field had settled."

McCoy's face turned a shade greyer. "I need a drink," he mumbled, slinging the oddly-shaped hand weapon onto the counter, and rubbed a hand over his face.

"I would appreciate one myself," I muttered, completely not comprehending how Holmes could be so absolutely fascinated with the idea that Moriarty had just about managed to kill the four of us by letting us return to ourselves in the dark expanse of space, which from these men's reactions I judged was not capable of sustaining life.

But no, my friend was hovering over the flashing lights and buttons, asking the eager Scot about how he had managed to get us back, and what the devil did 'pattern buffer' mean, and why did we have to stand on the transporter platform if Watson had been taken directly from the _Enterprise_ Bridge, and could they send any object through the transporter or was it only possible with people, etc, etc.

Upon hearing that the _Dracone_ had effectively made its escape, the Captain looked as if he were about to slam his fist through the nearest wall. Instead, he seemed to calm when his tall friend brushed his arm with the fingertips of one hand, indicating the opening doors.

"Scotty, repair the shields as soon as possible, and we'll need Warp Six-point-five and a bit more."

"That'll take a good fifteen hours, sir!" the man protested.

"You've got five."

"Aye, sir." From the grin on the fellow's face, which was ever-so-briefly mirrored on Kirk's, apparently this was some running joke between him and the Captain. "You'll have it."

Kirk sighed and turned to leave, shooting us one glance over his retreating shoulder. "Good. Bones, do something with our guests while we track down that renegade ship?"

"I'm a doctor, not a babysitter!"

But the doors had already closed behind the two officers. I cleared my throat uneasily, but the tension was broken quite effectively by the Scottish fellow clapping Holmes on the back in a most jovial manner and exclaiming something about 'findin' a kindred spirit', whatever that was supposed to mean.

"Doctor – Doctors," Holmes amended hastily as we both glanced over at him, "I shall remain with Mr. Scott. He has a fascinating wealth of information I should like to hear about regarding the workings of this ship."

"Ummm." McCoy rubbed his chin uneasily. "You're not supposed to learn anything here that could alter your time period…"

Holmes chuckled dryly. "I assure you, Doctor, I have neither the incentive nor the ability to build a starship of my own three and a half centuries in your past. Most of the materials used, I believe, are not even in existence yet, and I shall be shown no formulae to memorize. This is purely for my own scientific curiosity. If that will satisfy you?"

The physician nodded finally, more in an I-don't-care-this-is-ridiculous-anyway gesture than out of acceptance of Holmes's promise, and turned to me.

"Well, Dr. Watson. I don't guess you'd like to discuss battle surgery over a brandy, would you?"


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**_Chapter Thirteen_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in orbit around Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.4_

The turbolift doors closed behind the two men, effectively giving them the privacy the Vulcan had been unconsciously desiring; the ride back to the Bridge would afford him just enough time to regain his imperturbable calm after such a narrow escape as the Captain and McCoy had just been through. Still, he rebelled quite adamantly about beginning to voice his thoughts.

Kirk's using a voice command to halt the lift between decks brought him back to the present from where he had been wandering in the past, his and another man's.

"All right, spill it."

By now, the innocent reply was both automatic and his way of complying with the human's need for teasing to show affection. "Captain, I am carrying nothing which I could possibly release in so chaotic a fashion."

Amusement glinted in the amber eyes. "Wise guy. Look, we've had narrow squeaks before. Why is this one enough to make you act so…well, I don't want to insult you, Mr. Spock, but if you were human, I'd say you were _worried_?"

He refrained from denying the reality that he was acting in a different manner than he normally did; to deny a proven fact was highly illogical, and with this human especially, highly pointless. Instead, he focused on the first part of Kirk's statement.

"Captain, I am not certain you entirely grasp the ramifications of what just nearly occurred," he said gravely.

Kirk shrugged the near-catastrophe off in his usual easy fashion, waving a hand airily in front of him. "So we were nearly beamed into open space. Life's short anyway, Spock. Why dwell on it?"

"I am not referring only to the loss of four lives, though that certainly is a portion of it," he replied, and saw Kirk's eyes sharpen in attention. "Do you truly understand what would have happened in our century had those men been killed five minutes ago?"

The Captain frowned, relinquishing the handle he held to lean an elbow against the wall of the turbolift. "We discussed this in the briefing, and with Starfleet," he began, slightly puzzled. "Holmes never married, never even had an affair with a woman that we know of – they frowned on those things back then – and the Doctor's wife is dead at the period we took them from; she died leaving no children. We agreed the risk was low enough that we could chance it, because they would have no descendants. Siblings, yes, but they were never close enough late in life that it would affect anything if they disappeared in 1894.

It's not ideal, and I'm sure there are changes, but at least they wouldn't have children to worry about. The Guardian calls certain people _key focal points_ of history, where changing their lives can cause irreparable damage," here a muscle in his jaw tensed, and he closed his eyes for a moment before continuing, "and some people aren't. Supposedly these men aren't, since half the world only thought they were literary characters anyhow.

That was why the ‘Fleet chose to pull them from 1894, and didn’t just send us back to 1891 to try and fix the timeline there in Switzerland itself. Dr. Watson’s stories first started being published only after Holmes’s supposed death, and if we did anything to disturb the timeline in 1891 it might have too many ripple effects we don’t know about with literary history."

"Most of that is true," Spock agreed. "However," he turned to face Kirk, eyes sober, "in exactly two weeks, one day, and fifteen hours from the moment they disappeared from their timeline in 1894, Mr. Sherlock Holmes will introduce a near relative to Doctor Watson, and this man eventually purchases the physician's medical practice in their London, completing the transaction one week from that first encounter."

"So?"

"And this gentleman – Henri Verner – through his medical practicing meets a young woman, marries her, and in exactly three hundred and six years a descendant of their union marries a Terran European squire named James Grayson," he continued, and waited patiently for Kirk to make the connection. (1)

He was not disappointed. The Captain's eyes suddenly widened and he stiffened upright from his previously slouch. "Wait…you mean…"

The First Officer nodded soberly. "James Grayson is my maternal great-grandfather, Captain," he explained further. "If Mr. Sherlock Holmes dies, then he will not introduce that relative to Dr. Watson's London medical practice. Verner will not marry, and will not have children, who will _not_ give birth to a daughter who would marry James Grayson."

Kirk's face, formerly flushed with anger at being out-maneuvered and his men nearly killed because of this renegade from the Victorian era of Terran history, paled suddenly. "Then, if Holmes dies here –"

"If he does, then I will cease to exist in this timeline, Jim. And because of various missions we have undertaken in which I played an integral part...if I cease to exist, then quite possibly so will with _Enterprise_."

The statement was delivered in characteristic lack of feeling or enthusiasm, but in the privacy of the turbolift the Vulcan did not bother to hide the very human apprehension, for his own life as well as for their ship, that nagged most distressingly at the back of his controlled thoughts. One wrong move would be all that was necessary for their universe to crumble and alter forever; he did not at all relish the lack of control he held over the entire situation.

“I did not realize the connection until late last evening, or I would have mentioned it when we were researching these men and their possible connections to history. But it only reinforces the scientific principle that time travel is not a science to be taken lightly, Captain. And these men are more valuable to our own timelines than even they are aware of.”

“Noted.” Kirk sighed, shaking his head. “But at this point, what can we do but keep going?”

“I do not have an adequate answer, Jim.”

In the enclosed space of the lift, he could feel the tension – and fear – that Kirk hid so successfully behind the easy-going charisma and bland smile he practiced upon the crew and acquaintances alike, and he was not in the least fooled by his captain’s apparently resigned shrug as he clenched the handle again, ordering the computer to resume the lift's journey.

But just before they reached the Bridge, Kirk slumped against the wall once more, covering his eyes momentarily with one hand. "I don't like playing God with people's lives, Spock," he admitted frankly when the Vulcan took a tentative step closer in gentle inquiry. "Especially yours, or my ship's," he added in a nearly-silent whisper, straightening up as the lift slowed; to all appearances all business.

The doors opened before Spock could reply to that; the somewhat emotive response it deserved took far too long for his logical mind to generate properly. He could only send a reassurance of trust through a light touch on the Captain's shoulder before he moved back to the science station to relieve the Ensign substituting for him.

That would have to be enough, for now.

* * *

Leonard McCoy watched in amusement as the English doctor choked on the drink, erupting into a coughing fit that would have made any nurse within earshot worth her rank reach for the tri-ox hypos.

"Sorry," he ventured mischievously, though he wasn't at all. "Forgot to tell you it's probably a little stronger than you're used to."

"That, my dear sir, is a colossal understatement," the man gasped, setting the glass down and following suit, rather heavily, into the nearby chair across the desk. He coughed lightly before lifting a watery-eyed gaze to the smirking physician. "Like drinking a glass of carbolic," he muttered, quite able to see the amusement that this fellow took from the novelty of his presence.

McCoy stared blankly. "Carbolic?"

"Carbolic acid? You don't use it in this century then, for antiseptic purposes?"

"Certainly not!" he exclaimed, shuddering. "I thought that stuff went out in the Dark Ages."

He received a hazel glare. "Did _courtesy_ also 'go out' then as well?" Watson inquired pointedly.

Well, the man had guts, and probably a temper, behind that reserved exterior of almost ridiculous _courtesy_. To borrow Spock's favorite word, it was fascinating. Still, he decided to keep a close eye on the both of the visitors, for they had taken the transition more calmly than he would have assumed they would; some sort of delayed reaction was sure to set in once they realized, free of battle-action, just what had happened to their world.

But for now, " _Touché_ ," he grinned, toasting the Britisher with his glass before flopping into the other chair. "So," he began uncertainly, feeling his way with the man as he went and finally deciding on a broad opening gambit. "What do you think of the future?"

Watson shrugged easily. "I am relatively unimpressed with its definition of a fine brandy." McCoy mirrored the amused grin, but the Englishman's smile faded somewhat after a moment. "I will admit to being more than a little overwhelmed, McCoy. I do not think it has quite sunk in yet, what all this means."

He nodded reassuringly. "Most species we've had to meet for the first time or bring up to the _Enterprise_ are scared half to death, so don't worry if you start feeling a little strange," he said. "We'll do whatever we can to make it easier on you, even if you’re only here for a few days. Other than the disorientation, what are you feeling exactly?"

The man frowned in some obvious reservation. "I really have not seen enough of things to venture an honest opinion of any kind. Other than the fact that I truly despise that 'Transporter', as you call it."

"Doctor, you're a man after my own heart," the other saluted, finishing off his drink. "Well, I would give you a tour of the ship but I don't know where the Captain wants you to stay, exactly. It's an indication that he's wound way too tight about this whole thing, that he forgot to assign you quarters."

Watson looked pensive, and more than slightly uneasy, at the idea. "You anticipate our being aboard this…vessel…for long, then?"

The physician shrugged. "Nobody ever tells me anything," he replied cheerfully. "I'm only Chief Medical Officer, not really part of the command chain. And I like it that way."

"Chief Medical Officer. What rank would that correspond to in – I suppose you would call it ancient – military status?" the other asked curiously.

"I've no idea, really," McCoy answered thoughtfully. "As CMO, I hold the rank of Lieutenant-Commander, but a whole lotta circumstances would have to happen in order for me to be excused from my medical duties in order to take command of the Bridge. Scotty – Lieutenant-Commander Montgomery Scott, you met him in the Transporter Room – is third-in-command, although he doesn't like to be away from his precious engines for long enough to take command."

"And your Mr. Spock is second, after the Captain?"

"Mmhm." The physician replaced the bottle in the cupboard stash, locked it, and gestured toward the door leading to the main ward. "Would you like a look around, Doctor? You may not have another chance, if we start chasin' that friend of yours into the next galaxy."

"The _next_ galaxy?! There is more than _one_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) There is actually a line in one of the motion pictures in which Spock tells us that Sherlock Holmes was one of his ancestors. However, I don't believe Holmes was a Vulcan in disguise in the Victorian era, nor do I believe Holmes ever married, and so I took a more logical approach to the thing.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**_Chapter Fourteen_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in orbit around Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.4_

Kirk catapulted onto the Bridge, never giving indication of the sobering conversation he had just taken part in, and reclaimed the chair from Sulu as the young man scrambled back to his station.

"All right, people. Where did that ship go?" What on earth had happened to the communications button on his armrest-panel?

"Course plotted into the computer already, Captain," Mr. Spock spoke up calmly. "I entered the coordinates immediately prior to leaving the Bridge and made the necessary calculations in the turbolift, relaying them to Mr. Sulu just before I reached the Transporter Room."

Kirk's eyes blinked incredulously. "Why, exactly, do you get so annoyed when Bones calls you a walking computer?"

"Vulcans do not feel annoyance, Captain."

Kirk snorted back a laugh, schooling his face into seriousness. "Forgive me, Mr. Spock, I completely forgot."

The Vulcan's mouth twitched so slightly no one except his superior officer saw. "Do not allow it to trouble you, Captain. It is a common human failing."

"Yes, yes it is," Kirk drawled, grinning behind his hand as it rubbed over his chin, and giving the young helmsman a warning look to stop his silent snickering. "Well, I don't want to go after her until the shields are at maximum again, now that we know what Morbus – Moriarty, whatever we're supposed to call him – is capable of, and the Portal is relatively safe for now. We can all relax for a few hours at least." He punched the intercom, trying not to slice his finger open on the sharp edge. "Scotty, how's it coming?"

_"Sir, it's only been a quarter of an hour!"_

"And?"

 _"And she'll be in tiptop shape in exactly four hours, forty-five minutes as promised, not before. Here now! Dinna touch that, Mr. Holmes!"_ The informative voice escalated into a near-yelp, and Kirk exchanged a raised eyebrow with his First Officer. Muffled sounds came through the channel for a moment.

"Scotty?"

_"Nothing, sir, nothing at all. Er…Scott out."_

"It appears Mr. Sherlock Holmes is taking full advantage of the opportunity for mental expansion," Spock observed sagely.

"Let's just hope he doesn't pull the plug on something down there," Kirk muttered, but was not worried enough about the matter to tell the Englishman to confine himself to his quarters (Scotty was more protective of his precious engines than the Captain was of his whole crew, which was saying quite a bit). And now, come to think of it, he hadn't _assigned_ the two visitors any quarters.

He was so _tired_...

"Mr. Spock," he asked, whipping the chair around toward the Vulcan. "Would you see to quarters for our guests, and also see if you can pry Dr. Watson out of Bones's claws long enough to show him where they are? Tell them where they should go and where they shouldn't, and inform them that I'll take them on a tour later if possible?"

The mental comparison to a vulture over fresh meat was very apt, in Spock's opinion, of the Chief Medical Officer, but he naturally did not indulge in voicing so unimportant a thought. "Affirmative, Captain. Deck Five, near your quarters?"

Kirk was already scrubbing the heel of one hand across his eyes in preparation for making a report to Starfleet; a task the Vulcan did not envy, especially considering their failure to apprehend the _Dracone_ when it entered the prohibited sector. He started, glanced up blearily, and nodded, waving an absent hand as his First Officer made his way behind the command chair toward the turbolift. "Yes, we'd better; keep them safer that way."

"I will see to it immediately, Captain."

The doors opened, and he stepped partially inside before turning back for a moment, wavering. Kirk had been on duty for thirteen-point-five-four hours now, in addition to the mental strain of this all-important mission taking its toll mentally as well as physically. And though he still did not quite comprehend the depth of his Captain's grief from the last time they had visited Aeternus, he was well aware that it could not possibly be fully dealt with by a human in only a few months' time and that the re-visiting of the planet and its Portal was no doubt full of painful memories.

And considering that McCoy was engaged in what he had so quaintly referred to as 'babysitting the Englishmen', the task fell to him to ensure that the Captain got off his Bridge for at least an hour before the shields were in good enough condition to allow them to pursue and locate the _Dracone_. Quite logical.

"Captain."

"…to Starfleet Command, Priority One, Uhura. Yes, Mr. Spock?" The younger man turned toward him, wary question written in his expressive eyes.

"Since we have exactly four hours and thirty-seven-point-two minutes before repairs to the shields will be completed enough to enable pursuit of the enemy ship, might I point out that the next few hours could be the only time you will have to rest or procure a meal? It would be permissible for the Captain to quit the Bridge for an hour at least, under those circumstances."

Unfazed, the human in one swift gesture – not rude, but curt – acknowledged and dismissed his awkward attempt at showing concern. "Duly noted, Mr. Spock." Kirk turned back to the screen, worrying unconsciously at his lower lip as he carefully chose his words for his superiors.

Uhura, fingers nimbly balancing damage reports with intercommunications and Kirk's official communique, glanced encouragingly at the Vulcan as he stood, hesitating on whether to further his unsuccessful attempt or simply to engage in what humans called the better part of valor.

But he could, when he chose, 'play the game' as Kirk called it, with the best of them, and did so. "Excellent," he answered smoothly, as if the Captain had agreed to anything he asked. "I shall see our guests to their quarters and then return for you in one hour, Captain, with the reinforcement of Doctor McCoy if you deem it necessary."

And before Kirk could splutter a protest, the turbolift doors closed on a very smug – if the emotion could be admitted to – First Officer.

* * *

McCoy cut the tour of the Sickbay short, as he thought much more new information might very well overload the Englishman's already thready grasp on reality, for the man looked a little dizzy with the conception of it all.

"This is incredible," Watson murmured, watching from outside the door as Nurse Chapel attended to a crewman who had been badly burned by an exploding console in Engineering during the battle. "And you truly can heal burns so severe in only a few hours?"

"Sure can." His fellow medico's enthusiasm was both flattering and somewhat saddening, as he knew any physician worth his Oath would give anything he owned to be able to heal more efficiently than he did; after all this, it would be agonizing to return to those barbaric days of the late 1890s and face the fact that people died back then from nothing more than a 'flu bug.

"What do the lights mean, there above that man's head?" Watson asked softly, so as to not disturb a resting crewman in the next ward.

"He's fighting off a stomach virus we picked up at Olberon III. Not contagious, just miserable, poor fella. The lights're indicators of body functions," McCoy explained. "The bed picks up all the information and relays it to the screen. Blood pressure, respiration, hydration, pain indicator –"

"It can really tell all that while the patient is asleep?"

"Mmhm. No more timing the pulse in the wrist, unless you want to double check the readings, or listening to the man's lungs," he agreed cheerfully. Then he chuckled as the ward doors closed behind them. "I'm not sure I'd even know _how_ to listen to a man's lungs, for that matter…what'd you call those primitive things, _stethoscopes_?"

He realized only a second later that the Englishman could very well have gotten offended at being called primitive, and blew out a whistle of relief when the man seemed to be fine with it. He'd need to watch that mouth of his; offending their visitors would tick Jim off to no end, and tension would drive the rest of the crew crazy when they needed to be at peak efficiency.

But Watson was smiling, a slightly mischievous grin. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in learning how to use one of those 'primitive' antiques?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

He felt his eyes bug without meaning to. "You've got one _on_ you?"

"I had just tended a patient the night before your friends came to Baker Street, and it is still in my coat pocket," the man grinned, fishing out the odd-looking apparatus.

He barely restrained himself from whooping with delight, for he was probably the first and only medical officer in the 'Fleet to ever see – much less handle – an antiquated item like this, in such perfect condition too.

"Show me!"


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**_Chapter Fifteen_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in orbit over Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.6_

The Doctors McCoy and Watson had been easy enough to locate, though he was somewhat mystified to discover them engaging in what he believed humans called "shop talk" (which had no relevance whatsoever to the equally illogical expression "minding the store") in the medical bay.

He had rarely seen that particular light of excitement in the ship's doctor's eyes, but thankfully the man was so enamored with what he called his "new toy" that he apparently forgot about making comments involving mythical creatures with green blood, among other various insults of which the physician kept a plethora specifically targeted at and for him.

When he had offered to take the English doctor to his quarters, he could immediately feel the intense relief emanating from the human; no doubt the strain of keeping up conversation with a being such as Leonard McCoy was draining, not to mention exasperating. To a human, at any rate.

The timing was apt, for as they were leaving, an ashen-faced Lieutenant staggered in, complaining of chills and fever, and to his credit the physician tossed his "toy" onto the desk and moved into high-speed medical mode.

It was not until they entered the turbolift, after waiting for it to release a flurry of personnel on their way to the mess hall for Alpha-shift meal, that he suddenly realized that he was being regarded somewhat curiously, but without the usual fear that most species held in regards to him. Watson was watching him, evaluating and wondering, but only slightly uneasy in his alien presence. Surprisingly enough, though the physician obviously had no shielding ability (for the emotions he could sense from the man were a veritable maelstrom of controlled chaos), the various sensations were not intrusive, as if held barely in check by an enormous force of will that few humans of his acquaintance possessed.

Fascinating.

He felt rather than saw a sudden, almost surprised, look upon him – as if the Englishman had read his thoughts.

No…surely not.

"Doctor?" he asked politely to cover his slight unease.

To his surprise, the man flushed lightly and dropped his gaze, contrition radiating off him. "I do beg your pardon; I was not intending to stare, Mr. Spock."

"I was not under the impression you were doing so, Doctor. Curiosity is a trait that all races share."

"Ah…good," the man murmured quietly. "Forgive me. This is all very…overwhelming to me."

"I shall locate Mr. Holmes and send him directly to your quarters," the First Officer said kindly as the doors opened and they exited to move down the corridor of the quieter Officers' Deck.

Relief foremost, and then a wary look flitted his direction, as if the man were wondering how much he knew and how. He did not permit more than a mental smile as he used his clearance to override the locks on the two guest doors, situated halfway between the lift and the Captain's quarters.

"I am, Doctor, half-human," he ventured by way of explanation as the doors swished open. "And as such I am aware that when facing the unknown, it is sometimes made easier to do so with the company of a – an acquaintance."

"Does your race feel it unacceptable to admit to the word _friend_ , then, as an emotion?" the Doctor asked quietly, and he nearly fell into the human reaction of staring at the man's perception of his change of wording.

He stood stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, and regarded the human with increased caution – and a modicum of respect that had been absent before. "No, Doctor. Open expression of sentiment is frowned upon, but the absence of discussion does not negate an object's existence," he admitted, somehow knowing that prevarication would not work on this particular human.

He received a small smile. "Indeed."

The silence that ensued was awkward at best, and he lost no time in informing the Doctor how to use the lavatory's facilities and showing him how to adjust the climate controls, and then making his retreat as quickly as was courteously possible.

His suspicions about the human's unconscious abilities had become heightened while in such close proximity, and the more he contemplated the possibilities the more he believed he was correct. The Captain would wish to know this information. In all probability it would be of no practical use in such a raw state, but it was his duty to report nonetheless.

In the meantime, he quickened his pace to locate their other visitor, for he had sensed a growing unease, bordering on carefully concealed panic, rising within the physician. Somewhat illogical – what had happened could not be changed, only accepted – but, for a human, understandable.

"Engineering," he informed the lift computer, and the doors slid closed.

* * *

" _Empathic?_ " Kirk asked incredulously as the doors shut the Bridge from view.

"In a crude sense, and in a very mild degree, yes," the First Officer agreed patiently. "Primitive and untrained, naturally, but the ability is certainly there. It is logical, actually, when you consider the man's vocation and the fact that he seems to be the ideal partner for an unusual man such as Sherlock Holmes."

"You said in a _mild_ degree." The Captain suddenly turned to look him squarely. "Enough to make you uncomfortable? And don't give me that 'Vulcans don't feel discomfort', either," he added pointedly as his friend's mouth opened automatically for the response. “I can’t have an untrained telepath – empath, whatever – running around the ship if he’s broadcasting loud enough to distract you or anyone else with a high esper rating.”

Frankly amused, though he would never show as much, Spock permitted himself to relax, knowing the visible action would also aid the Captain in releasing tension (which he obviously needed to).

"Not in the least," he assured his superior. "As I stated, the ability is in a very crude form only, and empaths rarely are able to harm others even at their most powerful. I sense no more from him than I do from you, Captain, and it is not disturbing except at close quarters for an extended period of time."

Kirk rubbed his eyes as the lift doors opened. "Just one more thing to worry about," he muttered. "But let me know if it gets bad enough to disturb you."

"I doubt it shall come to that, Captain. The only reason I mentioned the matter at all is that I am required to report discoveries to my superiors, as well as the fact that the ability, crude though it may be, might be useful in future conflicts with this Morbus." The Vulcan's eyes narrowed. "We shall need every resource at our disposal if we are to take him by surprise."

"Agreed." The lift doors opened, and they moved along the corridor toward the ship's mess. Kirk stifled a yawn behind the back of his hand, and then cleared his throat guiltily at the pointed look he received. The two men nodded to a passing Engineer who greeted them cheerfully with an update regarding the status of the shields, and then Kirk mused aloud, "I suppose it would be better for our guests if we had dinner taken to them?"

"I have already cared for it, Captain. Also, I have programmed Selector Fifteen to reproduce what foods I could discover were common to that location at that time period, though I remain dubiously optimistic about the authenticity of their taste."

Kirk smiled warmly. "You know, there are times I think you are more compassionate than humans, Mr. Spock." He was pointedly ignored by his rigid companion, and satisfied himself with grinning at nothing in particular as they entered the mess together.

A group of chatting Science personnel waved at them and promptly offered to allow the two superiors go in front of them in the line. Kirk refused politely after thanking them, for he made a habit to treat members of his crew with the same deference as they rendered to him – which was part of the reason every crewmember on the Enterprise would be willing to walk out of the nearest airlock if Captain Kirk told him or her to.

Once seated with their trays, Kirk poked disinterestedly at his sandwich, worried about overtaking the _Dracone_ and her assumed Captain, while his First Officer methodically dissected his meal and consumed it in relative silence. When he had finished, Kirk shoved his barely-touched plate to the side and rested his forearms on the table, looking across at his First and ignoring the disapproving look he received about the status of his meal.

"We won't have any trouble tracking Morbus," he stated matter-of-factly. "Starfleet's pinpointing his progress; the _Dracone_ 's a renegade ship now, and every port will be on the lookout for it. Besides, I have a hunch he _wants_ us to find him."

He received a raised eyebrow. "Hardly logical, Captain. But I am inclined to agree with you, simply from what we know of the man's history."

Kirk nodded. "And we're going to need Holmes on the Bridge to tell us what the man's thinking, or we may never catch him."

"That, Captain, is not an option open to us," Spock replied soberly. "We _must_ stop him. There is no viable alternative."

"All right, then. If you've finished, let's go have a chat with our guests."


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**_Chapter Sixteen_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in orbit over Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.7_

I admit to being relieved beyond expression when the doors to our suite swished open suddenly, startling me and revealing Sherlock Holmes casting a dubious eye at them, one hand upraised as if to knock.

"I suppose that's an obsolete practice now," he muttered crossly, dropping his hand and entering.

I managed a smile. "Mr. Spock says there is a privacy lock that is voice activated if we wish to use it, and that only he or the Captain can override it to enter."

My friend harrumphed, flopping himself onto the nearest sofa and hauling out his pipe and tobacco-pouch. "So, Watson," he murmured, tamping down the contents of the pouch into his oldest briar, the only pipe which he had brought with him. "I have spent a most informative three hours learning some laws of physics that I had no idea even existed. I have also been able to ascertain that what these men have told us does seem to be the truth; it is not some grand charade being acted solely for our benefit. Incredible as it may seem, we do appear to have been dragged into the twenty-third century, and even at these times' incredible speeds of travel it would take several months to reach Earth."

I shook my head, feeling a headache pounding near the base of my skull. "I still cannot quite believe it, Holmes...and I am not certain I wish to attempt wrapping my mind around it all."

The detective lit the pipe, puffed gratefully for a few moments, and then carefully cooled the match before placing it on the nearby table.

And then it seemed as if all the hells broke loose.

Holmes attempted to speak but could not be heard over the shrieking of a warning bell, accompanied by every light in the room flashing a blinding scarlet.

“What the devil…”

_Warning. Smoke detected on Deck Five. Evacuate all cabins immediately._

The voice seemed to come from the ceiling and the walls at once, and for a moment we stared at each other in consternation.

I tried not to laugh, and failed, as he hastily extinguished the pipe – but not the lights and noise.

_Warning. Smoke detected on Deck Five. Evacuate all cabins immediately._

“I despise this century!”

* * *

“Well, that was rather exciting.”

“How was I to know that one is no longer permitted to smoke _anywhere in the civilized worlds_ , Doctor?” Holmes demanded, flinging the offending object onto the table with a muttered oath. “And those sirens at every offense! How does one remain calm in such an environment, and without artificial assistance!”

My amusement at his chagrin having faded at having to explain the situation to a very unamused grey-haired gentleman in a red uniform, I merely shook my head in silent commiseration.

Then he looked at me, and the disgruntlement in his eyes faded slightly. "You look a trifle overwhelmed, my dear fellow," he observed kindly. "You did indeed have rather more of an exciting hour than the rest of us did while confronting the dear Professor earlier."

I snorted at the understatement. "Indeed! Do you truly admit to harboring no misgivings about this…escapade, Holmes?"

My friend swiveled himself upright to face me, his expression one of calm reassurance. "My mind is, naturally, not at ease on the matter, Watson. But there is little we can do besides accept what has befallen; why not attempt to enjoy ourselves? We have been given the chance of a lifetime, you know, and one need not fully understand wonder to enjoy it."

"But Holmes…" I protested, for he simply did not seem to grasp the fact that we had been flung from our own time three and a half centuries into our future, nor the idea that we very possibly might never get back to our time again. "What if they are unable to return us to our own time? You saw how sheer luck and quick thinking prevented that – that gateway, or whatever they termed it – from being destroyed a couple of hours ago."

Holmes blew a wreath of smoke toward the shining ceiling, nodding thoughtfully. "There is that possibility, Watson," he admitted quietly. "But I have not been entirely idle, my dear fellow, whilst I have been learning about this ship's workings. Her crew evidently believes that the Captain and his First Officer are miracle-workers of the first order, specializing in very improbable gambles for very impossible stakes, and winning every time thanks to their incredible teamwork and sheer nerve. In short, I have never seen such complete loyalty and confidence among a group of people toward their leaders. It is as if the idea of failure is an utterly foreign concept to them. It borders on the unhealthy, their devotion."

"That is all well and good, but –"

"Mr. Scott, the Chief Engineer, reassured me that whatever had to be done to get us back safely, _would_ be done," Holmes continued, laying a hand on my arm in a rare gesture of reassurance. "You see, Watson, our Captain Kirk has as great an incentive to see to our well-being as we do ourselves, from what I have been able to deduce and discover in the ship's history books. Fascinating, that library, by the way."

"Holmes, if you were to learn something you should not –"

"My dear Doctor, pray calm yourself," my friend answered with a smile. "I merely asked Mr. Scott to help me access information regarding what changes would take place here if I – or both of us – were to be killed by Moriarty while on this side of our timeline."

Interested now despite my misgivings, I felt my distress begin to recede under my friend's calm and collected listing of facts. "And what did you discover?"

"That indirectly, a distant relation of mine in the far future seems to eventually make her way into the genealogy of this ship's Mr. Spock," Holmes informed me, filling his pipe for the second time with great relish. "If we are killed, then many people in this their world - I should say worlds - will cease to exist, including the man himself. Watson, quite simply, they cannot afford to lose us. We must simply trust that they know what they are doing."

"I have been endeavoring to do so," I admitted, looking down at my hands. Indeed, all my instincts had been from the beginning that these men had only pure intentions, a true love for their own history and a desire to protect it. There was none of that pure malevolence that I had felt choking me as soon as the transporter effect had left me disoriented on the _Dracone_ , only a certain nobility of mind and principle. It was obvious to anyone who cared to look, that the captain and first officer of this vessel would step in front of a bullet for the other; and now, we could only trust that they would be willing to do so for their duty.

Still, we had met enough charlatans in our careers that I knew better than to trust my feelings at first instinct, and though Holmes placed great faith in what he called 'intuition', it was useful only if tempered by the appropriate caution.

We were prevented from a further discussion by a soft chiming that reverberated through the room.

Startled, Holmes paused with his unlit pipe half-way to his lips; habits were hard to break. "Have you any idea what that is?"

"Possibly this century's equivalent to a doorbell, or a tele-phone ring?" I hazarded doubtfully.

"I have heard no communications device make that sound yet," Holmes mused. Then, offering me a quizzical shrug, he raised his voice to test the former theory. "Come in, please!"

To our joint reliefs, the doors swished open to reveal one of those shockingly-dressed young ladies, a very striking woman with blonde hair styled in an elaborate coif and a dress - if it could be called that – in the same brilliant shade as the man I’d explained the smoke alarum to earlier. Blinking, I attempted to focus upon the tray she held rather than her attire, though Holmes apparently was no more interested by either sight than he was in _our_ time period.

"Gentleman, my name is Janice Rand," she began directly, and I for one was relieved by the courteous but firm tone of voice; obviously this woman was competent in her own right in this timeline and had no intentions of acting the way one would expect from a woman in such clothing. While a woman addressing a man in such a stern tone of voice would never have been tolerated in our day, it was obvious that no harm was meant and naturally neither my friend nor I made comment on the matter. "Mr. Spock has programmed the food replicators to make something he believed was native to your time period," said she, smiling in a more friendly fashion. "Please let us know if it is not to your liking?"

"Thank you, Miss Rand," I ventured, returning her smile as she set the tray upon the nearby table.

I was somewhat surprised to see the young woman's face soften slightly from the stern lines it had been set in. "It's been a long time since someone called me 'Miss', I must say, Doctor," said she, smiling again at me.

"Do you prefer other titles in this century, then?" Holmes interjected absently, inspecting the tray and its contents with a critical eye.

The woman regarded him with veiled amusement, and some indifference. "My Starfleet title is that of Yeoman, and we are all referred to as 'Mister', if that's what you're asking. Is there a problem with the food, Mr. Holmes?"

"No, thank you," my friend replied, curiously tapping what looked like a perfectly edible pork roast with the tines of his fork. "May I inquire as to what a 'food replicator' is?"

"Um…I think Mr. Spock would be the better person to ask about its mechanics," the woman replied quickly, though I wondered at the evasion. "He and the Captain will be dropping by in a few minutes to talk to you both, after they've changed back into their complete uniforms and had a meal themselves. Please contact the mess hall if you need anything else."

And with that, she beat a somewhat hasty retreat through the doors, and I had the strangest feeling that she was attempting to repress laughter, though not really at our expense.

I seated myself across from Holmes and cautiously tasted the roast.

"Not up to Mrs. Hudson's standards, but it will serve," Holmes remarked cheerfully. "The reason I was asking about these 'food replicators,'" he continued, shoving the salt and pepper across to me with the hint of a grin, "was that Mr. Scott mentioned something about replicating machinery parts, down in their engine room, and the process by which they do so seems slightly…unappetizing to me if it were to be applied to food."

I held up a hand, shaking my head. "Wait until after I am finished, there's a good chap?"

His eyes gleamed in hidden mischief, and I felt myself relax slightly despite my unease. "As you like, Watson."


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**_Chapter Seventeen_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in orbit over Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.7_

I had nearly finished my meal, which was surprisingly good for what was in this century probably considered military rations, and Holmes was done analyzing and dissecting his, when the door chimed again and opened to reveal the two men whose visit had catapulted us into this melodrama. They had discarded the trousers and boots of our own time period (poorly imitated though it had been), and were looking slightly more refreshed than they had been earlier in the day.

"Gentlemen, I'm sorry for interrupting your dinner – no, don't get up, please," Kirk said hastily, waving us back to our seats. "But I think it's time we exchange information, now that we've got a little room to breathe."

His companion gave a placid blink. "Captain, this ship contains exactly the same amount of cubic volume, and thereby the same corresponding amount of oxygen, as it has since its construction –"

"Mr. Spock," the Captain warned, though from his eyes I could tell he was trying not to laugh. "Gentlemen, my Vulcan friend takes our human idioms in the exact literal sense," he explained with a smile that indicated he was not in the least being condescending.

The other man's slanted eyebrows disappeared under his hair in a resigned-to-this-inferior-being gesture that I had already seen several times. But from the look in his eyes, I was well aware that not all of that innocence was legitimate. I should have to ask McCoy if the man's race had a hidden sense of dry humor.

The two men settled themselves on one of the large couches, and Holmes folded himself long-legged into a chair while I moved to a seat beside him.

Kirk coughed slightly of a sudden, and then his eyes darted to Holmes's pipe, lying discarded on the table. A longsuffering sigh passed his lips. "So you were the reason for that smoke alarm?"

My friend's closed eyes half-opened lazily. "Whatever gave you that idea, Captain?"

Kirk snorted. “You’re quite fortunate I am a forgiving man, Holmes. I don’t take kindly to carelessness on this ship. It had better not happen again.”

“I understand,” Holmes replied, quite seriously. “This is your world, Kirk. Consider me advised, if unhappy about the fact.”

“Unhappy about not dyin-“ Kirk bit off the remainder of his sentence, glaring at his First Officer, who had apparently none too gently kicked him in the ankle. “Ahem. Well. I appreciate your cooperation. If you plan to light up, gentlemen, there are procedures to follow.”

"I take it the practice has become rare in your time?" I interjected, trying to stave off any further conflict.

"It has, Doctor," Mr. Spock answered cautiously.

"For health reasons?"

"Indeed."

Curious, I made a note to ask the McCoy why exactly the practice had been proven as unhealthy as physicians in my time were beginning to suspect.

"There is no Starfleet regulation against indulging in such habits in one's own quarters, Captain, and certainly none against guests doing so provided the quartermaster has been notified and Environmental Control has been programmed accordingly," Mr. Spock added helpfully. "If you will recollect, sir, the Rhaskarian ambassador brought up that exact point when informed he could not be permitted to indulge in his hookah in Rec Room Three due to the intoxicating effects on any personnel within two corridors –"

"I _remember_ , Spock," Kirk growled in annoyance. "I was _one_ of those 'personnel,' if you'll recall."

"Indeed, I doubt I could forget the events of that night, Captain."

Holmes went suspiciously into a violent coughing fit, while I only tried not to chuckle at the Vulcan's completely blank expression, a direct contradiction to Kirk's flushed features.

"If you please, gentlemen," the latter growled at last. "The matter at hand?"

"Yes, of course, Captain," Holmes coughed once and subsided into a silent quivering. "I take it you wish to know what I believe Moriarty's next move to be?"

"Or at least, what can you tell us about his character?" Kirk asked. "What's he like, what is he thinking? And how can we get close enough to him to capture him, without harm coming to you or the Doctor?"

"Which of those shall I answer first?"

"Tell me about his military strategy," Kirk advised. "Or at least…how he would approach a problem to be solved. He wasn't in the military in your time, was he?"

"He was not, although his criminal web called him a Colonel at times out of respect for his tactical skill," Holmes agreed, twiddling his unlit pipe in his hands. "He was a professor of mathematics before losing his chair due to scandal. After that, he began to form a criminal network in London that eventually had worked its way into the highest and lowest ranks of the metropolis, controlling over half the city, so extensive was the syndicate."

"And in April 1891 of your Earth time, you were key in destroying that syndicate," Mr. Spock supplied. "This man, Moriarty, escaped the police traps, along with three of the principal members of his organization. The rest were caught, and imprisoned that summer of your year 1891. Moriarty himself, with his chief-of-staff, pursued you and the Doctor across Europe, where in Switzerland he finally caught up with the two of you. The end result was a duel of sorts above the waterfall known as Reichenbach, after which you were presumed dead for three years."

Holmes stopped, shooting him a wary look. "Exactly how do you know all that?" he demanded. "You can't tell me it was all in the history books just like that, or that it even _made_ it into the books!"

The taller man's dark eyes glinted with gentle amusement. "Not the history books, Mr. Holmes," he replied, with a quick meaningful glance at me. "The literature books."

I started, staring at the man. "You mean to say, that my stories have lasted three and a half _centuries_?" I gasped, realizing that my voice had risen six or seven tones in pitch but not caring, so staggered was I at the realization.

"Indeed, Doctor," he replied. "All sixty of them."

"Sixty? I've only written – no, no, do not tell me," I muttered, shaking my head in realization. "I can't believe it!"

"Nor can I," Holmes snorted derisively beside me, purposely needling my literary efforts in his usual fashion.

"Gentlemen, we can discuss this later," Kirk interjected, not rudely but firmly. "Right now I need to know about this man and what threat he poses to my ship and to you two."

"If I recall your account of the matter correctly, Doctor," Mr. Spock added, "you described the man as Mr. Holmes's exact intellectual equal. By informing us what you would do in this situation, Mr. Holmes, we may be able to effectively predict Morbus's next movements."

Holmes frowned, steepling his fingers before him in deep contemplation. "Were I he," he began musingly, "I would first destroy the only way possible of being sent back to my own time."

"That is the most logical course of action," the Vulcan agreed.

Kirk's face was doing a fair impression of granite-hardness, and a determined, defensive glint was already forming in his eyes. "Then you think he will be coming back for us?" Kirk inquired soberly.

"I would rule that the most likely possibility. He may or may not wish to send Watson and me back through the Portal before he closes it; I have no knowledge of his goals in this century. He could possible wish to change the timeline by trapping us here, and altering your present – or he could very well be content with things the way they are, and wish to send Watson and me back through before blocking the return way."

"In that case, we might be able to use you as bait in a trap," Mr. Spock mused thoughtfully.

"Erm…I do not exactly like the sound of that," I ventured pointedly.

"It wouldn't be the best thing, Doctor, but we may run out of options and have to fall back on it," Kirk sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"May I ask," Holmes ventured sensibly, "why we could not simply fire upon that ship and destroy it when it appears to us again?"

"Holmes!" I cried, horrified at the cold-blooded suggestion.

"Outside the obvious loss of life, it _is_ the simplest method of eliminating the problem," Mr. Spock interjected.

"However," Kirk added slowly, "the ideal situation would be to take Morbus – Moriarty, in your world, back through the Portal, to ensure that none of this would happen in this timeline in the first place. Those are our primary orders; an execution is only to be used as a last resort, if all other options fail."

Something about that sent a tendril of unease swirling around in my stomach like an icy hand, twisting my insides with apprehension. Wait, if they wanted none of this to have happened in the first place –

"But that would mean, we would need to return him to the exact time and date in which he departed!" I exclaimed, the landscape of the idea lighting up brilliantly in my mind.

Uneasy, Kirk's eyes darkened as he nodded slowly. "Yes, Doctor. That is the only way to ensure that he dies this time. We need you to take him back through the Portal, to the anomaly through which he fell, carrying a…device, that will collapse the vortex before he reaches it at the bottom of the waterfall."

I had felt the color drain from my face at the sweeping realization of what they were asking us to do, and I glanced helplessly at Holmes to perceive him looking more distraught than I had ever seen him, his thin lips pressed tightly together and his eyes narrowed.

"Once we pass back through that Portal, we cannot return to you, can we?" he asked tersely.

Mr. Spock shook his head. "The Guardian will only permit historical figures to leave once; after that the Portal closes forever to them for obvious safety precautional reasons."

"And if we fail?"

"You must not," the Vulcan replied emphatically. "If you do, your future and our present will cease to exist. The man must die, and in such a way that your own timeline is not changed from what you already know it to be. You will then be able to live those three years as you did the first time, making sure to change nothing about your histories."

Kirk was eyeing me with some amount of caution. "Doctor, I understand your misgivings about the thing, but –"

"Do you?" I demanded hotly, rising from my chair to walk across the room; I was well aware that my emotions could be easily read somehow by the Captain's First Officer and had no desire to become a foreign spectacle to be studied. "Do you have any idea what you are asking?"

The Captain frowned. "Surely repeating three years of your lives is not too high a price to pay to ensure the future of an entire _universe_?" he inquired coldly. "We're talking about hundreds of worlds at stake here! Your – our – little Earth is only one planet in this one galaxy!"

I whirled in a fit of anger to face the callous speaker. From my left, I heard Holmes's warning "Watson..." but I stopped his progress toward me with an upraised hand.

Stiffly I drew myself up and spoke in measured, deadly calm. "I will not agree to this, Captain."

I could immediately sense that the man was entirely unaccustomed to being crossed in orders or will, for his face suffused an irritated scarlet and he stood to his feet, an intimidating figure despite his relative lack of height. "You, Doctor, have no choice in the matter," he snapped. "I will _not_ sacrifice my ship, my crew, and my universe simply because you do not wish to repeat three years of your own history. I regret that necessity, but I have a duty to my ship and my command to see this put right, and you are only one minor point in the plan."

I was about to completely lose all control of my temper – and my still-raw grief – when a cool voice broke the waves of tension into a rippled calm.

"Captain, a moment?"

Kirk made a sharp slicing motion with his hand. "Not now, Mr. Spock."

"Please, Jim."

I stared, for it was the first time I had heard such familiarity from the taller man, and such urgency. For a being who professed to express no emotion, I could sense that he was deeply concerned about something – either the direction of this discussion's aim, or else about us personally. Even Holmes blinked in surprise, and Kirk was entirely taken aback by the request. He glanced at his impassive subordinate in obvious hesitancy.

Finally, his friend's patient silence won out, and he turned back to me. "Excuse us, gentlemen," he muttered, stalking somewhat gracelessly toward the door and waiting, arms crossed, in the corridor.

Neither of us were spared a glance as Mr. Spock left, and the doors shut behind them, leaving Holmes and me staring somewhat awkwardly at each other.

I was the first to drop my gaze, and moved across the room to look at an oddly-shaped shelving unit, filled with strange and exotic knick-knacks. I had picked up a statue made of some translucent aqua-hued quartz I could not readily identify, and was blindly examining it when I heard Holmes's nearly-silent footsteps behind me.

"I am sorry, my dear fellow," he murmured regretfully, reaching around me to place the statue back on the shelf; even he could see it only remained in my hands to conceal their shaking.

I was silent for a moment, not trusting what I might say.

"Somehow, Doctor, I do not think the Captain was entirely aware of what those three years entailed," my friend went on reasonably. "He seems far too…emotive an individual to be intentionally callous, even with so much at stake."

Reason began to penetrate the mist-memories of my mind, and I nodded reluctantly. But be that as it might, one thing I still knew for certain.

I looked up at my friend, saw the concern veiled behind his austere eyes, and shook my head in unalterable determination.

"I will not – _cannot_ – live those three years again, Holmes," I vowed in a low tone, looking down at the spotless flooring and wishing it were the carpet in our Baker Street rooms, that this were just a horrible dream that we might laugh about tomorrow morning. "Your disappearance would be discomfiting but not crippling, were I to know it was only a three-year facade; and your death even I might be able to stand – but to watch _Mary_ die again, and be able to do nothing…knowing about these miracles they are able to perform here in this time…" I broke off, blinking back up at him, and saw his thin face twist in silent sympathy.

"I can't do it, Holmes, no matter what it costs them," I whispered, and though he did not agree with my reasoning I knew he at least understood.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**_Chapter Eighteen_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in orbit over Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.7_

The doors had barely closed behind the two Starfleet officers before Kirk was whirling on his First, controlled fury creating a nearly tangible aura around him. Had the officers' deck not been vacant due to shift changes, he might have been quieter. As it stood, too little sleep and too much tension did most of the speaking immediately.

"What, exactly, was that all about?" he demanded hotly.

His First Officer exuded nothing but calm, standing at attention with his hands behind him. "Permission to speak frankly, sir."

Kirk's annoyance cooled visibly, and he nodded. "You know you can, always."

"Then might I reiterate that, in future, you fully read briefings and reports before embarking on missions?"

The flush reappeared in the Captain's features, this time out of the rueful realization that he had obviously missed something pretty important. "That's what I have you for, Mr. Spock," he quipped with a feeble wisp of a grin.

"And under usual circumstances that should suffice, Captain." The Vulcan's eyes tightened sternly as he glanced back at the closed doors. "However, in this case, I believe you have overlooked the one important fact about this Dr. Watson, that would explain his reaction to your insistence of their returning to their own timeline three years prior to when they left."

"What could be so bad about it?" the other countered, honestly at a loss. He lowered his voice and moved out of the way as a yeoman scuttled past, trying to ignore the intense conversation between two of her superiors. "I understand that before, he and the rest of the world thought Holmes was dead for three years. But this time, he would _know_ it wasn't true." He frowned, leaning against the wall behind him, arms folded across his chest. "Why is that such a…big deal?"

The hiss of a turbolift discharging its occupant interrupted them, closely followed by a very disgruntled growl of greeting from a thoroughly cranky Chief Medical Officer.

The Captainal switch to command mode was done automatically. "What casualties, Bones?"

"Less than they could have been, mostly burns in Engineering," McCoy snapped, rubbing the back of his neck. "Why're you two skulking around in the hallways instead of doing something useful, or at least resting like I told you to?"

"The Captain had a slight…altercation with our visiting physician," Spock informed him. "When told that our guests should, if all goes as planned, return Moriarty to the exact moment in time in which he left their world, Dr. Watson refused to participate. I was preparing to explain to the Captain the Doctor's reasoning behind his refusal to cooperate."

"Then do it," the other physician retorted. "And in words of one syllable, will you?"

A raised eyebrow. "That would encompass considerably more time, Doctor, for I should be forced to cogitate how best to bring the conversation down to your somewhat limited communicative level –"

"Spock, just tell me!" Kirk exploded, fisting his hands at his sides.

"Simply put, Captain," the Vulcan replied calmly, "the Doctor was married at the time that Moriarty disappeared from Earth's Switzerland. Two and one-half years later, his wife died of pneumonia in London – carrying their unborn child."

Kirk's face went bloodless, and he sagged back against the wall with a hand over his face. "Oh, no…"

"Would you truly have him relive that, or expect him to do so willingly?" Spock asked quietly. “Not all men are strong enough to allow history to take its course as you did, Jim.”

McCoy's eyes had darted in disbelief toward the quite perceptible understanding tingeing the supposedly emotionless First Officer's voice, then widened in appalled horror that in those barbaric days people could die from something so easily remedied as pneumonia. Then his gaze slid over to the figure of his Captain.

Kirk quite visibly winced, but then nodded silently behind his hand. None of them brought up the incident on the Preservers' planet, just as none of them had yet brought up the last incident involving the three of them on Aeternus. Some things were more comfortable and more comforting left unsaid.

McCoy gripped his Captain's shoulder quietly. "I’m sorry, Jim. This whole mission has to be a nightmare."

Kirk's face emerged finally from behind his hand, and he blew out a slow, measured breath. The color slowly returned to his cheeks, though not enough to conceal the dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes. "That’s beside the point," he murmured, glancing up at his XO with a look of repentance. "Even if he agreed, we can’t chance that he would follow through, not for three years. And I wouldn’t ask another man to do _that_.”

Spock inclined his head silently.

“And next time, quiz me on those reports, will you?"

"If you wish it, Captain." The reply was not without sympathy.

McCoy bent slightly to look the shorter man in the eyes. "Did you sleep at all like I told you to?"

"No time, Bones." Kirk waved him off, straightening the hem of his uniform tunic and resolutely turning back toward the doors through which he had just been pointedly escorted.

Scowling, McCoy muttered something under his breath that caused the Vulcan's eyebrows to perform their usual disappearing act, and the Captain glanced at him in fond exasperation. "Later, Bones. Later. Spock, will you hurry Scotty along? I'll meet you on the Bridge just before we go to warp."

"Where are you going?" the physician demanded.

Kirk glanced over his shoulder after chiming the visitors' door. "To see if our Victorian gentlemen know what the expression 'eat crow' means," he replied ruefully, before disappearing inside the quarters assigned to their guests.

"Guess he doesn't want us along," McCoy humphed, quite obviously miffed at the door being closed in his face.

"That, Doctor, is a sentiment with which I can wholly sympathize where you are concerned."

"Why, you –"

"If you intend to detract from the aesthetic value of this corridor by loitering here until the Captain emerges, then be so good as to inform him that I shall be in Engineering with Mr. Scott until he requires me on the Bridge."

"Oh, blow it out your pointed ear!"

"Anatomically and medically impossible, Doctor."

* * *

Ordinarily James Kirk never felt more at ease than when he was flanked by one or both of his subordinates who were also his two closest friends; however, he would be the first to admit that when embarrassed he'd rather neither Bones nor Spock saw more of him at his most vulnerable than they had to.

At least one good thing about that ancient time period from which they'd yanked these two men was that the people from it made even Spock's flawless courtesy of manner look like an Orion club-brawl. He wasn't expecting a polite greeting, but was relieved just the same to discover one.

It was not in his nature to beat around the bush when going through it was much quicker, if less delicate. "My First Officer has drawn my attention to the regrettable fact that I…was not fully apprised of the situation when I made my statements just now, Doctor," he said directly to the man in question, refusing the seat the Englishman offered hesitantly to him. He wanted none to have the advantage of height over his control of the already tenable situation. "That is an oversight I will rectify in future."

The Doctor looked slightly puzzled, and so he tacked on a more gentle, "I was not aware of your wife's death, Doctor, or of the manner in which she died."

"Holmes conjectured as much after you left," Watson rejoined with an admirably calm courtesy.

He shot a glance at the tall detective, who only blinked unperturbed at him in a disturbingly familiar manner. "He's correct, Doctor. That is a situation I would never ask a man to live through, passively and without attempting to change his history. We will find another way, and I will explain the reason to Starfleet somehow.”

The Englishman’s expression hadn’t changed, but he nodded with a half-smile. “I should appreciate that.”

“It may require a much less civilized approach, however, to the upcoming conflict,” Kirk warned. “This man goes no further through my timeline. We draw the line here.”

“Then let us begin, Captain.”


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**_Chapter Nineteen_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in orbit over Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.8_

With the additional aid of the most brilliant mind aboard, the progress on repairing the shields drew near a rapid conclusion, and Scotty was more than happy to concentrate his attention on the battle scars the rest of his ship – for it was _his_ just as much as it was the Captain's, thank you very much – had been given.

Presently, the Chief Engineer was half-under a console, bellowing at one of his 'laddies' in-between soldering wires and keeping an eye on his Vulcan helper, who was squeezed behind a blown-out motherboard tinkering curiously with the Scot's jury-rigged circuits.

"There is no logical reason this conglomeration of wiring should have functioned at the capability it did," he heard the disgruntled mutter above a shower of sparks. "It is highly illogical."

"An' that's why the Captain keeps you on the Bridge, Mr. Spock, and the _true_ genius down here where it belongs, y'see."

Ah, there went that eyebrow again. Scott chuckled and returned to his repair work, only to pause a minute later when a pair of very definitely _not_ -Starfleet-issue boots paused beside his console.

"Mr. Scott?"

Drat the Englishman anyhow – didn't he realize this had to be done within the hour or they would have one very unhappy Captain holding his feet to the fire?

"Aye, Mr. Holmes," he called, not pausing his work. "Got t' finish this, laddie, afore the Captain has my head on a platter. Kin it wait a bit?"

"Oh, certainly." The man sounded reasonable enough, thank heaven. "I admit to simply being at a loss to occupy my mind. Your Doctor McCoy seems to have quite efficiently ensnared my friend Watson with a ridiculous amount of medical talk. I left them discussing treatments for diseases that have not yet been discovered in our time, I believe."

"Mr. Scott," the Vulcan called over from his work, pushing some plating back into place.

"Aye?"

"The Captain would 'have your head on a platter'?"

He laughed, which caused the tool in his hand to jiggle, consequently showering his shirt with sparks. "He wouldna be happy, Mr. Spock."

"Yes, I daresay that would be an accurate assessment," came the blank return."I am nearly finished here, Mr. Scott. The phaser banks should be fully operational by the time the shields are restored."

"Good," Scott returned shortly, connecting wires so quickly it fairly dizzied the Englishman now crouching curiously beside his console. "Kin y'check on Wilson and Landers, make sure they'll be done refitting Auxiliary by the time we warp out of here?"

"Affirmative." 'Fleet-issue boots paused near the crouched figure of the detective from their past. "Mr. Holmes, I believe Mr. Scott would function more efficiently without your somewhat unnerving silent attention."

Scott choked on a laugh as their visitor scowled up at the impassive Vulcan. After a moment of miffed silence, however, the man did retreat with more grace than not, and the CE poked his head out from under the console in enough time to see the two brains leave together, apparently engrossed in some rather serious-looking conversation.

Though with Mr. Spock, one could never tell if the conversation were ever _not_ serious, come to think of it…

* * *

"…within the hour, we will have finished repairs on the shields and weapons systems and will begin pursuit of the renegade vessel the _Dracone_. For now, the Portal on the surface of Aeternus appears relatively safe, though I have recommended to Starfleet that they dispatch at least two ships for defensive measures should it become necessary to keep the Guardian from being destroyed." Kirk finished his abbreviated log entry and passed the PADD to the waiting yeoman, who gave him a quick nod and disappeared into the turbolift.

He thumbed the communications channel on his chair. "Scotty, how're we coming?"

_"Half an hour, sir. You'll have full shields, but only warp five."_

"Phasers?"

_"Mr. Spock just finished with 'em, Captain. You'll have full weapons array."_

"You get a raise, Scotty…if I can convince Starfleet of it," he amended with a small grin.

A dry chuckle trickled through the link. _"Scott out."_

The turbolift opened behind him. Swiveling to make certain the repairs were nearly finished to the damaged Bridge consoles, at least the ones they needed in top working order, he noticed that Sulu was making his way back to his console.

"How's your head, Mr. Sulu?" he asked sympathetically, having had enough bad concussions to last him a lifetime; he knew how not even Bones's meds could take the edge off some of them. And the young officer had doggedly stuck to his station even after smacking his skull upside the floor, until the danger was over.

"Been better, Captain, but…in Mr. Spock's words, fully functional," he replied with a quick grin.

Kirk's lips curved slightly in return. "Good. We should be getting underway within the –"

He was cut off by the sudden shrilling of the alarms over the navigational console. At the same moment Uhura's voice sounded sharply from behind him. "Starship entering the sector, Captain. No identification, but it is the same size as the _Dracone_ and shows the same energy outputs as the ship we encountered earlier."

"It could be a 'Fleet ship, coming to guard the Portal," Ensign Matthews ventured timidly from where he sat beside Sulu; the latter missed Pavel Chekov more and more every day that passed with less experienced navigators. The young Russian had taken extended leave in the furthest reaches of Terra’s Siberian region, while they'd been undergoing refits back on Earth, and had not had time to return to the _Enterprise_ before she was shunted unceremoniously out of spacedock to undertake this covert mission.

"Without identifying itself?" Kirk replied, his eyebrows twisting in apprehension. "Uhura, are you hailing it?"

"Aye, Captain. No response on any channel, sir."

"Captain, that thing is traveling at Warp Seven-point-Eight!" Sulu suddenly stated, half-turning. “ _How_ is he getting that much speed out of a ship that size?”

"No idea, Mr. Sulu. If that _is_ the _Dracone_ , he'll tear the ship apart before the day is over. Unless he's got some sort of alien technology we’ve never seen, like he had to protect his shields," Kirk growled, punching the intercom. "Mr. Spock, report to the bridge immediately." He released the button. "Go to yellow alert. Uhura, if that jamming field takes effect like it did before let me know immediately, and dispatch an emergency call to Starfleet Command now just in case."

The armrest chirped. _"Spock here, Captain. I am en route with Mr. Holmes."_

"Good, we may need him."

"Captain, the ship is on an intercepting course!" Sulu warned.

"All hands, red alert."

* * *

Out of deference to courtesy, the First Officer waited until they had checked Auxiliary Control and were entering the turbolift to respond to his inquisitive companion.

"I am unaccustomed to being asked such personal questions, Mr. Holmes," he informed the man bluntly. "Nor do I feel it necessary to explain myself to you. In a few hours you will be returning to your own time and place, and the less you know of your own future the better it will be for all involved."

"Mr. Spock," Holmes spoke patiently, though between a clenched jaw. "You are asking me to relive three years of my life, not to mention killing a man I already have killed once – and do not attempt to bring up the self-defense ploy, for the fact remains that I shall never forget that I _killed_ him. I believe I deserve some explanations, or at the least some information."

He received a stony silence as the lift moved upwards.

Kirk's voice over the communications broke the stillness, and after answering the summons the two men returned to staring each other down across the turbolift.

"How, precisely, does your captain expect us to come to an understanding of a strategy that will best Moriarty if we cannot even communicate properly?" the detective demanded at last, unaccustomed to being thwarted or even intellectually matched and not quite sure whether to be intrigued or threatened by the fact.

"There is no need for us to communicate, Mr. Holmes, outside of normal tactical parameters. My personal abilities and character do not fall within that purview."

"No?" Holmes snapped, folding his arms impressively, though without any effect on his traveling companion. "Watson says he feels he can trust you – unusual for him, at first meeting anyone – and what is more important, he cannot give me a good reason _why_. All I asked was if you could give me the reason for my friend's uncharacteristic behavior. You…do not have an ability to hypnotize, do you?"

The Vulcan remained impassive, staring straight ahead. "I have no such ability. Your friend's behavior is none of my concern, just as my personal life is none of yours, Mr. Holmes. You will cease this line of inquiry."

Furious, the Englishman took a step across the small space, intent upon receiving some answers. Before the words could leave his mouth, however, the lift shuddered, and lights flickered wildly for a moment before dissolving into smothering darkness.

Then the floor fell out beneath them.


	20. Chapter Twenty

**_Chapter Twenty_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in battle over Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.85_

Captain Kirk was thankful, oddly enough, for the fact that the lights dimmed for a space of three seconds before kicking back on again, because the darkness effectively concealed the grimace that twisted his face when he was thrown out of his chair, striking his arm with a sharp crack on the edge of the step leading up to it (why Starfleet had never padded the railings and other sharp corners on starship Bridges, he had no idea).

Within two seconds he had scrambled back to his seat along with the rest of the Bridge crew, ignoring the klaxons wailing and the damage reports leaking in behind him to Uhura's calm direction. The ship was already listing dangerously to port.

"Matthews, compensate for whatever’s happening with those inertial dampeners – get us straight again! Mr. Scott, get those shields up now!" he shouted into the intercom, as another blast rocked the ship. The lights flickered but remained on, thank heaven, as the ship slowly righted itself, responding sluggishly to the Ensign's frantic commands as he was directed surreptitiously by Sulu.

 _"I can't, not right now, sir!"_ the Scotsman called back frantically. _"They just took out our warp engines, Captain, and systems are failin' all over the ship!"_

Uhura whirled toward him, he heard the chair creak from behind. "Captain, Sickbay reports still functional, but decks eight through eleven are completely without power. Life Support is on reserve, and all turbolifts are either jammed or malfunctioning."

Something twisted in his gut. "Scotty, emergency stop on all turbolifts. And divert all power to the shields if you have to, but –"

Another hit bathed the Bridge in blinding red light, and this time the power dimmed noticeably.

"But get those shields back up to full!" he finished, hand clenching on the arm of his chair as his opposite finger depressed the shipwide comm. "Mr. Spock, report." The crew watched surreptitiously, those who could spare their gazes for a moment from their consoles, as no response was heard. Kirk's jaw tightened minutely. "Mr. Spock, if you are within reach of a communications unit, report to the Bridge."

Silence.

Sulu recognized that cold glint that suddenly drove the usual warm sparkle from the Captain's eyes, and his hands were moving even before Kirk gave the order.

"Photon torpedos, Mr. Sulu. Full spread."

"Aye, Captain."

"Captain, radiation leak on deck nine. Emergency bulkheads in place now. Minor casualties; most of our people got out in time. Shield five buckling."

Kirk toggled the comm again. "Mr. Spock, report." Nothing.

" _Dracone_ circling, sir, returning on same course. Phasers locked on Engineering."

"Hold steady, Mr. Sulu. Scotty, are those shields up?"

_"Aye, Captain, but not full power – and if our impulse engines take a hit we're not goin' anywhere for months!"_

"Understood. Keep those shields at maximum if you can, and compensate on shield five with auxiliary power. And Scotty?"

_"Aye?"_

Kirk automatically turned toward the science station to his right, accustomed to bouncing his ideas off the usual occupant of said station. At the sight of the blue-garbed, unfamiliar Ensign nervously manning the equipment, his jaw tightened and he swerved back to face the viewscreen. "I may need you to find a way to transport through the _Dracone_ 's shields if they drop them enough."

_"With that much reinforcement, it’ll be nigh impossible, Captain."_

"You've done the impossible before, Scotty. Get on it immediately."

_"Aye, sir."_

" _Dracone_ within firing range, sir, powering up their phaser banks," Sulu reported quickly.

"Fire torpedoes, Mr. Sulu. I don't care where you hit them, just _hit_ them."

* * *

Dr. John Watson raised an eyebrow at the colorful expletives that exploded from the other physician's mouth as they squeezed through a set of doors that were stuck half-way open.

"Dang it," McCoy muttered, holding his breath before finally popping through. "I'm a doctor, not a contortionist…ooof."

Had the situation not been so dire, the Englishman would have laughed. But he knew all about battle mode, and did not bother to even smile at his grousing companion. The flashing red lights and scurrying personnel were a sobering enough sight, but the knowledge filtering over the communications systems that half the ship's functions were down made things even more serious.

"I don't like the fact that the Captain keeps comm-ing Spock," the physician muttered uneasily as a third call came through the unit they passed in the hazily-lit corridor.

Watson nodded, clenching his hand in his pocket unseen by the other. "More so because Holmes was with him, according to Mr. Scott," he added softly.

"I'm sure they're fine, just climbing up the turbo-shaft to the Bridge," McCoy ventured reassuringly, though the optimism was not only out-of-character but obviously not even half-heartfelt. "Or they might not have been in the lift, and are usin' a Jefferies tube."

"A what?"

"This, Doctor, " the other man indicated, yanking the door off the small opening.

"You cannot possibly be serious…all the way down to Sickbay?"

"Would you rather take the ventilation system?" McCoy demanded. "I've gotta be in Sickbay; casualties are going to be coming in from all over the ship. You can't make it up five decks to the Bridge, not climbing all that way with that bad shoulder, until the lifts start working. So you're coming with me; 'least you'll be doing something useful. You _do_ know how to slow and stop bleeding at least, don't you? Don't even bother to look at me like that, I've been the target of Vulcan death-glares meaner than snakes and let me tell you, yours is _nowhere close_. Now move it, and watch your step."

* * *

It was fortuitous for both of them that the First Officer had been standing in a relatively balanced and stable position when the lift had malfunctioned; rather than being thrown headfirst into the wall as it plummeted he instead was able to remain on his feet by holding to the handle inside, and he managed to pound the override command into the console by his right hand before they had dropped more than six decks.

"Emergency stop initiated," the mechanical monotone droned, and this time he was flung headlong by the nearly-instant cessation of motion. Inertia was not governed by emergency stops, unfortunately, and so it took him all of two-point-seven seconds to reorient himself in the darkness of the stationary lift.

Not even the emergency lights were working within the lift, and when he attempted to contact the Bridge he received only dead silence; obviously communications were out as well as everything save the failsafe functions.

He was about to push open the emergency hatch in the ceiling of the lift when a weak moan brought his attention flying back from the condition of the ship – what was happening up there? – down to the sprawled, limp figure of the man he had been sharing the lift with when it malfunctioned.

Crouching beside the dim shadow that his sharp eyes could detect as a lighter shade of black than the rest of the lift's space, he reached out tentative fingers and brushed the odd fabric the Englishman's coat had been made of – tweed, it was called, if he remembered his ancient textiles correctly. "Mr. Holmes. Are you injured?"

He received no immediate answer, and his brows knitted in lieu of what humans would call a frown. He shook the man lightly, and this time received a grunt and a quiet groan. "Mr. Holmes."

Under his grip, the man suddenly struggled up to a sitting position, and he instantly released the detective's arm as consciousness brought a wave of sensations flooding into his suddenly overwhelmed senses.

"Mr. Spock?" came the uncertain mutter.

"Yes, sir. The lift malfunctioned, Mr. Holmes. Apparently the _Dracone_ fired upon us accurately enough to impair many vital ship functions."

"Moriarty always was a crack shot," the Englishman grumbled rebelliously.

"Mr. Holmes, are you injured too badly to be moved?" he asked, looking up toward the hatch even though in the pitch-blackness he could not see the outline of the door. "We must reach the Bridge, if the _Enterprise_ is under attack."

"I've a headache…but other than that, I believe I am relatively unharmed," Holmes observed, slowly rubbing his temples under cover of the dark.

"Then I suggest we make our way out of this lift; there is always the possibility that the emergency stop mechanisms may malfunction, and we would not survive falling to the bottom of the shaft. A thoroughly undesirable outcome."

A wry snort. "I concur entirely."

He heard a small scuffle as the Englishman staggered to his feet, followed by a barely-suppressed grunt of pain. "Mr. Holmes?"

"I am fine, Mr. Spock," came the answer, somewhat stronger now. "Precisely how do we get out of here?"

"All turbolifts carry emergency escape hatches in their ceilings; as long as the magnetic latch has not fused closed we should be able to extricate ourselves shortly." The Vulcan ran his sensitive fingers along the border of the panel until encountering the latch. It was the work of five-point-three seconds to unlock the panel and push it upward, where it clanged loudly on the roof of the lift.

"And how, pray, are we _both_ going to get out there?" Holmes muttered testily from across the enclosed space.


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**_Chapter Twenty-One_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in battle over Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.9_

Spock heard a weary sigh as the human moved one unsteady step closer.

"My strength is considerably superior to that of humans, Mr. Holmes. I shall be completely capable of lifting you out once I have reached the roof of the lift."

He had already put his hands on either side of the small opening in preparation to heave himself through it, when a loud thump jolted the small room.

He turned quickly, though the darkness was still pitch-black other than a watery reddish haze filtering in from the emergency shaft lights outside their prison. "Mr. Holmes?"

The human was breathing heavily, he could tell that even before he reached the man's side in the darkness, which was not a good sign. One light touch was all that was necessary to sense a great deal of pain, far more than a concussion should be producing, and he withdrew immediately even as the Englishman apparently returned to full awareness.

He sensed Holmes, obviously biting down on a moan, struggling to a sitting position to finally lean against the wall. "No, just my head," the man murmured weakly in answer to his inquiry. "In the darkness, I suppose I was unable to perceive I was growing dizzy until what I thought was the wall turned out to be the floor…"

"I could leave you here and send a medical team down for you," the Vulcan mused slowly, "though the risk of harm due to remaining in the lift is much higher than that of you falling while climbing the shaft with me."

"I am coming," the human growled, sounding rather like McCoy when he was greatly annoyed. "Just allow me to get my bearings first."

The lift creaked suddenly under them, and he shot a calculating look up at the opening over their heads. "We do not have the time for you to do so," he stated matter-of-factly, and without ceremony hauled the protesting Englishman to his feet.

Holmes staggered for a moment, cursing under his breath about a horrendous Vulcan bedside manner, and he released the man's arm in order to focus upon the matter of extricating them from their prison.

"Hold to this handle to ensure you do not fall again," he instructed, guiding the human's grip – were all humans' hands that cold? – and then ascertaining the man was steady enough propped against the wall. The lift shuddered slightly, and he lost no time in hauling himself out of the hatch, easily and gracefully shifting his position to extend his hands down to the human below.

"Lock your hands around my wrists," he directed. "I am precisely two paces to your right and six-point-five inches over your head."

Shifting movement, and cold fingers locked tightly as instructed. He placed his weight correctly and then began to pull, smoothly and in one quick motion, until the Englishman was collapsed on the top of the lift beside him, breathing heavily.

"So…superior strength is peculiar to your Vulcan race?" the detective managed, curiosity overriding the pain burning in the depths of his skull for the moment.

The First Officer's lips quirked upward on one side, well-hidden in the red-glowing darkness. The man never did stop with that incessant inquisitiveness.

"Affirmative. Stand to your feet, Mr. Holmes. I am moving around you toward the ladder at the side of the shaft – follow the sound of my voice and do not make any sudden moves. This lift is obviously not as stable as it should be."

He had found the ladder, and a moment later the detective's outstretched arm thudded against his. Their hands met briefly, producing a tingle of sensory input, as he drew the human toward the wall of the shaft. The red glow of emergency lights far above cast an eerie pulsating haze over the shaft, though their luminescence barely penetrated down to the two trapped figures. All that could be seen were dark shadows and darker ones.

"You will ascend first; were you to grow dizzy and fall, I might have a chance of preventing it. Beneath me, you would only plummet to your death."

"You needn't sound so excited about it," Holmes muttered in annoyance, placing one foot on the closest rung and feeling for the next.

"Vulcans do not feel excitement," he replied automatically, waiting until the Englishman's boots had passed his line of limited vision before placing his own foot on the rung.

"According to your ship's library banks, they do not permit physical contact, either," Holmes retorted with asperity. Spock noted that the words were slurring slightly, but the defect had faded in the next sentence. "Yet you were just forced to do so several times."

"I assure you, it was not by my choice."

"I apologize for the inconvenience," the Englishman's voice streaked down with a dry edge.

"Apologies are illogical, especially for events which are beyond our control," the Vulcan answered patiently. "Unless you purposely administered to yourself the force necessary to acquire a severe concussion as well as at least one bruised or slightly fractured rib, then I see no reason for your remorse, however artificial that remorse may be."

He heard with tolerable satisfaction a good deal of spluttering from above. For thirteen-point-four seconds they climbed in absolute silence, a welcome change.

Then Holmes harrumphed suddenly, and judging from the unobstructed loudness of voice must be looking down at him. "How did you know about the injuries with such specificity?"

"That is precisely the reason Vulcans do not allow physical contact, Mr. Holmes. Please keep moving up the shaft; we have four levels yet to go before we reach the Bridge. We are touch-telepaths," he continued after the Englishman obeyed with astonishingly little argument.

"Telepathy …that is so much charlatanism in my time. I take it, the ability is genuine in this one. Adding touch to the ability, meaning you can sense thoughts from physical contact?"

"Thoughts, unless the subject is guarded enough in his mind – you are, Mr. Holmes, though most human minds are far too disorganized for such safeguards – as well as basic raw emotions such as pain or fear."

Holmes was silent for a moment, placing hand over hand on the rungs of the narrow ladder. "In our day, that sort of thing is looked upon as madness or a simple parlour trick," he ventured thoughtfully.

"In your day, it most likely _is_ , at least under normal circumstances," the Vulcan replied. "True human telepaths in your time were nearly non-existent, and those who did possess the ability had no conception of how to use or cultivate it. It is a developed and carefully-used trait, and in humans is extremely rare even in our time. Anyone who claims the ability in your day is either falsifying it, or most likely has only the vaguest conception of his true capabilities."

"I see." The human paused for a moment, and Spock bumped his head on the bottom of the man's left boot. "My apologies," he heard the faint murmur from above when he inquired as to the delay. "I…admit to being rather dizzy at the moment."

"In that case it is best you not attempt to climb further until the sensation passes."

"Very sound advice, Mr. Spock, thank you," Holmes muttered, though the Vulcan could tell from the human's voice that the detective was smiling despite clinging to the ladder as tightly as a Euridian leech-worm to its host.

Thus reassured that the man was not seriously injured apart from the blow to the head, which he apparently was calm enough about, the Vulcan's thoughts returned to what had stranded them here in the first place – and what was happening three decks above them on the Bridge?

* * *

Kirk never had missed his First Officer more, as the Ensign assigned to the science station floundered, nowhere near as rapid in firing off statistics and strategies as his illustrious predecessor or even the absent Russian. Entirely alone, the Captain was battling a much superior force and was not appreciating the odds involved. Fighting chances were one thing; hopeless battles where he couldn't bluff his way home free were entirely another.

"Scotty, can you get life support back to primary systems? Those backups won’t hold more than two hours," he demanded under the cover of another barrage, looking around at his injured Bridge personnel; the medical teams could not reach the Bridge yet, and so all non-essential station personnel were attempting to see to the wounded.

_"Workin' on it, Captain! But I canna do everything at once, especially with no warp power!"_

"I need those turbolifts fixed too so we can get medical teams up here," Kirk warned. "Hard about, full impulse, Mr. Sulu!"

They had inflicted losses on the _Dracone_ as well, but due to the superior shield power the ship appeared to have both engine systems still fully operational, and was maneuvering much more easily than the crippled _Enterprise_.

_"I believe I can get ye through the shields over to that ship while they fire on us, Captain, because o' the frequency fluctuation when they use their phasers – but there's no way in the galaxies I can get you back again!"_

"Be ready to do it, if I can find Holmes and the Doctor." _And Spock_ , he added mentally, clenching his good hand on the arm of his chair; the other arm was throbbing mercilessly where he'd struck it moments before.

" _Sickbay, McCoy to Bridge,"_ his armrest squawked, and he breathed an unconscious sigh of relief – at least Bones was safe for the moment. _"What the Sam Hill is going on up there?"_

"The _Dracone_ is not much for diplomacy, let's just say – fire phasers, Sulu. Again, full spread! We're working on restoring power, Bones. Is Dr. Watson with you?"

_"Yeah, he is. We've got pretty heavy casualties below decks, Captain."_

Kirk's face twisted in silent agony, knowing without asking how bad the damage was, just because the physician had called him by his title. "Do what you can for them, Doctor."

 _"Well naturally! Oh, good Lord…put him down over there!"_ the fainter bellow filtered through the open channel before McCoy's voice returned to its normal volume. _"Gotta go, Jim. Have you heard from Spock?"_

"No."

_"Well, don't worry about it. You know a shuttlecraft could fall on him and he'd still manage to live, due to some Vulcan magic trick or other."_

A thin smile poked at the corner of the Captain's mouth. "I hope so, Bones. Bridge out. Uhura, has the _Dracone_ responded to any of our hails?" Though the battle had only lasted for about sixty seconds so far, it seemed like as many minutes to the overworked Bridge crew, and Kirk was beginning to think their opponent had no qualms whatsoever about destroying them now.

"No, sir, not a word."

"Any word from Starfleet about sending other vessels this direction?"

"Negative, Captain." A jolt shuddered the ship, and an explosion of red lights on the woman's Damage Control panel began blinking. "Emergency bulkheads have malfunctioned on decks seventeen through nineteen, sir. We've over forty crewmen trapped down there."

"Are they in any danger, radiation leaks ro anything?"

"Not at this time, sir."

"Then life support and engine power is still our top priority. If they become in any danger, tell Mr. Scott that those bulkheads take precedence, Lieutenant."

"Aye, sir."

Another blast rocked the Bridge, but Scotty's pampered shields held. Kirk was about to make one last-ditch attempt to at least disable the phasers of the opposing vessel, when a sudden pounding drifted to his ears. He sat up straight in the chair in surprise – it was coming from the jammed turbolift doors.

Even before any of them could realize what it probably meant, he was thumbing the switch at his hand. "Scotty, can you override the emergency seal on the Bridge turbolift doors?"

_"Sir, the lift is jammed five decks down –"_

" _Now_ , Scotty!"

 _"Aye, give me a minute, Captain,"_ the Scot grumbled, and fifteen seconds later the doors groaned sluggishly open. Kirk was out of his chair in one swift motion, moving toward the gap.

A wide-eyed Englishman poked his head up and over the edge of the flooring, breathless and pale, and then grinned at the surprised Bridge crew.

"I believe your century's correct phrase is, _Permission to come aboard, Captain_?"


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**_Chapter Twenty-Two_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in battle over Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.9_

Kirk's momentary amusement was covered effectively by Uhura's soft giggle despite the gravity of the situation outside their viewscreen, but the relief that evaporated the worry from every pore of his features was evident to all concerned when a toneless voice below the Englishman requested he remove himself from the Vulcan's way, as he was needed at his station and he had no intention of clinging to the shaft ladder until Mr. Holmes decided he had had enough melodrama for one hour.

Firmly tamping down on an extremely human shout of relief, the Captain contented himself with permitting only himself and no one else to help his First from the shaft, despite the pain that throbbed dully in his arm from where he'd given it that whack on the chair. Kirk let his eyes do the talking as the Vulcan straightened slowly and rearranged his wrinkled uniform.

"The lift appears to still be positioned due to my emergency stop between decks six and seven, Captain," he reported calmly. "Mr. Holmes is suffering from a concussion and a bruised or fractured rib. I am undamaged, if slightly weary of his incessant chatter."

"Chatter!"

"I do not recall stuttering, Mr. Holmes."

Kirk choked, turned the laugh into a cough, and then pushed his First Officer gently toward the science station. The Ensign scuttled eagerly away from the high-stress workplace, returning to Environmental Control with a prayer of gratitude to the combined deities of several neighboring planets.

"Mr. Holmes, I suggest you have a seat," Kirk then said, not without concern; for the taller man's pale face had turned a sickly shade of gray and he was swaying unsteadily against the rail dividing the two sections of the Bridge.

The detective declared his intentions to remain where he was, but the decision was made for him when a terrible blast jolted the Bridge, sending personnel rocking in their seats and the Englishman staggering against the rail. Caught mid-stride and completely off-balance on the upper part of the deck, Kirk would have dived headfirst into the science console but for quick Vulcan reflexes.

"I suggest you follow your own advice, sir," Spock mentioned mildly, setting his Captain on his feet again.

Kirk shot him a dirty look, but the Vulcan was already bending over his scanner, hands flying over the console without even looking in an effort to regain precious lost time. The Captain moved back and thumped himself down into his seat, again returning to the intercom.

"Bridge to Sickbay."

 _"Chapel here, Captain,"_ a female voice, somewhat strained, answered. _"Dr. McCoy is finishing up with a patient."_

"Tell him Mr. Spock and Mr. Holmes are back with us. Holmes –" he broke off at the furiously frantic gesture the Englishman was giving him, and suddenly understood. A smile from one doctor-badgered man to another passed between the two men, and he amended, "Holmes wants the Doctor to know he's alive and well."

_"Aye, Captain, I'll tell them. Sickbay out."_

"Thank you, Captain," Holmes said quietly. "I daresay Watson has enough to worry about now."

"Captain, that last hit took our shields down to sixty-three percent, shield six weakening dangerously," Sulu reported as on the viewscreen the Dracone swooped back toward them once more. "Their phasers are locked onto Engineering."

"Divert remaining power to starboard shields."

"Captain, their shields are still at maximum, and the _Dracone_ itself is barely damaged. The odds of our surviving a continued space battle with the ship are exactly four thousand, five hundred seventy-three to one," Spock intoned from his station, without looking up at the chagrined face of his Captain.

"That bad?"

"I will recalculate to check, sir, if that is your wish."

"Captain," Holmes ventured into the conversation, swaying slightly on his feet and then taking a temporary seat on the rail beside the command chair. "I know how this man thinks. He enjoys the thrill of the hunt. Make him believe there is no more sport in the game, and he will show his hand. While you continue to give him the mental stimulation he seeks, he will keep toying with you until irreparable damage prevents his continuance."

Kirk whirled the chair to look the detective in the eye. "You mean make him think the ship's completely vulnerable? In my experience, that means a boarding party, and we're in no condition to wage war on our own turf. Ten minutes ago, I might have agreed, but…"

"Actually, Captain," the Vulcan spoke up, interrupting respectfully, "with the failure of major systems aboard the _Enterprise_ , it would be rather difficult for a boarding party to maneuver the ship effectively. We would certainly possess what I believe you Terrans call a 'home court advantage'. Further, if we are to overcome this man's safeguards with which he has apparently equipped his ship, then we shall certainly be forced to do so from within it."

Kirk's eyes lit up for the first time with a flicker of determined hope. "And out of a crew of sixty, if fifteen of them try to take what they believe is a crippled _Enterprise_ …leaving only forty-five over there…"

"Thee odds would reduce to a probability of one thousand, six hundred and fifteen to one, Captain, in favor of our success." A gleam darkened the First Officer's eyes, and Kirk smiled.

"Good enough a gamble to count me in. Put me on ship-wide, Lieutenant. Holmes, sit down before you fall down, we're going to need you in a minute."

* * *

Once the Englishman had been shown how to properly administer a hypospray, McCoy had assigned that minor duty to his care, wary of giving the man too much information about more advanced technology at the present time. Under Nurse Chapel's direction, Watson worked steadily and efficiently, and it was a good ten minutes before the CMO had the worst injuries enough under control to locate and check on the man.

To his surprise, he found that the Victorian was doing a quite passable job of, single-handedly and without medications, calming the worst case of hysteria he'd seen since the Transporter malfunction off of Troas II, from a Hydroponics Ensign who had obviously taken a terrible blow to the head and was intensely confused about where she was and when.

He grunted in a complimentary fashion as the Englishman relinquished the now-calming young woman to Chapel's expert care. "Nicely done." Watson looked slightly surprised, and so he explained. "You've quite a bedside manner there – I don't think I'd've gotten her to calm down that quickly without a sedative."

"She was merely frightened and confused," the other shrugged. "Coupled with post-battle shock, it is not an uncommon reaction in my admittedly inferior experience. If nothing else, I likely have more experience in a war zone than you, if what you say about your peacekeeping is accurate."

"Well, good job anyhow." The physician automatically clutched a nearby bed – one of the few empty ones in the Sickbay – as the ship shuddered under them. "I sure hope Jim has a plan for this mess," he groused.

As if in mocking answer, the comm. unit on the wall squawked. _"All hands, this is the Captain."_

McCoy merely hmphed in response to the announcement and continued to his next patient, an unconscious yeoman who would need minor surgery to repair a badly mangled hand.

 _"In exactly five minutes from the close of this announcement, all non-essential systems aboard the_ Enterprise _will be shut down. This includes all but minimal reserve life-support, with the exception of the Sickbay. This means no lights, no machinery, no_ anything _unless absolutely necessary to your safety or the ship's repair. Implement emergency measures immediately, and be prepared for a possible boarding party. All available Security personnel, report immediately to your stations. Protocol alpha-one-one-beta-one-zero-six."_

Watson's eyes met the other physician's in quizzical wariness over the yeoman's head. McCoy scowled. "That’s not good."

The Englishman blinked.

Kirk hesitated a moment before continuing. _"You know the drill, people. Good luck to all of you. Mr. Scott, five minutes from this moment, and be prepared to re-start systems on my mark. Kirk out."_

McCoy punched the button even before the last word was spoken. "Sickbay to Bridge. What d'you mean, a boarding party?" he demanded into the wall unit. "And what the heck am I supposed to do with Doctor Watson while you're all playing 'possum up there?"

 _"Calming down would be advisable, Doctor, for initial measures,"_ the Vulcan's voice came through the unit, cool as iced lemonade on a hot-as-Vulcan day. It was fortunate the First Officer couldn't see the CMO's sour response, and the accompanying gesture.

 _"Spock, please. Bones, believe me, I'd like to have you both up here,"_ Kirk said quietly. _"But you're needed there, and besides the lifts still aren't functioning. You'll just have to…hold the fort until we can get everything going again. We've got a plan, but we don't know how long it will take or how successful it'll be."_

"By that, meaning…?"

 _"You have to guard the Doctor, Bones,"_ Kirk answered soberly. _"With your life, if necessary."_

McCoy felt an indignant presence at his shoulder. "I assure you I am perfectly capable of defending myself, Captain," the Victorian declared with some irritation.

 _"I do not doubt that, Doctor,"_ Kirk responded, placating. _"But my Chief Medical Officer asked for orders, in his own slightly unique way. I gave them."_

"I'll give you _unique_ , the next time you need a full physical," the CMO muttered.

 _"Be on your guard, Doctor,"_ the Captain continued, his tone neutronium-hard. _"We're hoping once the_ Enterprise _looks crippled, Moriarty will come for Holmes, or else transport us off the Bridge. But that doesn't mean he won't have a boarding party searching the ship. Or trying to cripple it from the inside."_

"Understood, Captain." When he wanted to, which wasn't very often, McCoy could snap into military efficiency as fast as the next man – faster, actually, which was why he hadn't been kicked out of Starfleet two hundred times over for his brash habit of shooting off his mouth at the most irreverent moments.

Kirk's voice softened perceptibly despite the mechanical tone of the communications channel. _"Good luck, Bones."_

"Wait," Watson spoke up hesitantly as McCoy was about to depress the channel. "Is Holmes all right, Captain?"

After a momentary pause, the familiar voice was heard. _"Quite all right, my dear fellow."_

Relaxing visibly, the Englishman nodded in relief even though the other could not see the motion. "Take care, Holmes."

_"I shall."_

Precisely two minutes later, the power suddenly dimmed in the disused reception room, and life support systems went to the minimum possible without endangering any patient.

"What now?" Watson asked in a subdued undertone.

McCoy tossed him a hypospray. "Keep that in your pocket; it's enough neural paralyzer to knock out an Ortavian bull-elephant. If we're boarded you may need it."

The other smiled understandingly and stowed the item safely in a pocket. "A physician's weapon."

The CMO gave him a sharp, appraising look, and then nodded curtly. "I don't hold with killings, and Lord knows we've had enough already on this ship today," he snapped, turning to take a basin from Chapel. "Now I've got surgery to do. Make yourself useful, but don't touch anything you don't know what it is."

"Understood." The man nodded obediently, and obviously bit back an automatic response of tacking a 'sir' onto the end of the answer.

McCoy grinned to himself as he entered the sanitizing chamber, and only hoped that the Captain knew what he was doing.

For all their sakes.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

**_Chapter Twenty-Three_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in battle over Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.9_

"All systems well within minimum safety parameters, Captain."

Kirk nodded, rubbing a hand lightly over his upper lip as the power faded from his ship. The soft ebony of space gradually swallowed the _Enterprise_ , dimming the lights in a blanketing wave of darkness, and he resisted the urge to shiver with apprehension at what seemed to be the cessation of life aboard. It was a very real fear of his, one that haunted his nightmares; seeing his ship dead in space, vulnerable, helpless, lifeless, and her captain unable to do a single thing to help her.

"Reduce starboard inertial dampers by fifteen percent, Mr. Matthews. Once he's done that, let her drift a little, Mr. Sulu."

"Aye, Captain." The two men chorused in unison, and scrambled to make the correction. The ship began to list slightly to port, giving the appearance of being disabled or crippled.

"Well, at least they aren't trying to hit us when we're down," the Captain pointed out after a good sixty seconds passed in silent uneventfulness.

"Really, Captain," Holmes sniffed, obviously peeved. "No honourable Englishman would."

Duly chastised but still entirely skeptical, Kirk eyed the man. "And you really think this guy is honorable?"

"He is." The detective's eyes hazed over for an instant, and he swayed slightly in his seat before righting himself. "That is fortunate for your ship and crew, Captain Kirk. I do not believe he will destroy you without fair warning."

"I wish I was as sure as you." Kirk started as his First Officer turned suddenly from the scanner. "What is it, Mr. Spock?"

"Transporter beam, Captain," the Vulcan enunciated succinctly. "You were quite correct about the boarding party. The Dracone's shields have dropped by seventeen percent, obviously to facilitate transport."

"But…" The crew looked round the Bridge, prepared instantly for intruders, but saw no persons missing nor the telltale sparkle of particles that would herald arrivals. Kirk swore silently; he had been gambling that Moriarty would transport directly to the _Enterprise_ Bridge. "Where are they?"

"Deck Five. The most logical location, since all officers would be elsewhere at this time of ship's day and in an emergency."

"How many?"

"Ten men, moving in a group toward the aft end of the corridor. No doubt they intend to make use of the Jefferies tubes." Spock whirled back toward the scanner, keeping his eyes upon the blips that indicated intruders. "Shall I have the tubes and turboshafts flooded with anesthezine gas, Captain?"

"Negative, Mr. Spock. We need those lifts in working order, and we can't repair them if we have to spend precious time in airing them out." Kirk smirked suddenly, relaxing in his chair. "But if you would like to flood Deck Five with the gas, then please be my guest."

" _Thank_ you, Captain."

The deeply-buried dry humor in the unnecessary response did much to lighten the tension that hung thickly about the dimly-lit Bridge. Kirk waited patiently for the next report, keeping his eyes glued to the motionless shape of the _Dracone_ , which remained hovering outside the viewscreen like a Berenthian dragon, waiting to pounce upon its final victim.

"Corridors filling with anesthezine gas, at seventy-two-point-one percent and rising…seventy-five percent…and eighty-five percent. Targets have been successfully neutralized, Captain."

"Ten down, fifty to go," Kirk replied cheerfully, and thumbed the emergency communications. "Security to Deck Five. Ventilate the deck and throw the boarding party in the brig. Bridge to Engineering. Mr. Scott, you said you can get us over through the _Dracone_ 's shields?"

_"Aye, Captain, but not until power is restored to systems."_

"Be ready. If they send a second boarding party to lessen the odds over there, then we'll be coming down to you the back way."

_"Aye, sir. I've got men working to get the turbolifts unjammed, sir, but 'tis slow and delicate work. It could be an hour at least."_

"Make it forty minutes, Mr. Scott."

_"How aboot thirty-five?"_

Kirk grinned. "Tell McCoy when you've got them working, and plant yourself beside the Transporter. We may have to move fast when the time comes."

_"Aye, Captain. Scott out."_

"Transporter beam energizing, Captain…" Spock spoke up suddenly, his face illuminated brilliant-blue as he bent to his task. "Seven men. Deck Six."

"Sickbay, this is the Captain," Kirk snapped into the armrest, gnawing at his lower lip.  
 _  
"Captain, Doctor McCoy is in surgery and the nurses are all engaged with patients. This is Doctor Watson."_

Well, at least the man had figured out how to use the communications. "Doctor, there is a boarding party on your deck. You must be prepared to defend yourselves."

 _"Oh, charming,"_ came the wry response. _"Captain, you are aware no one in this Sickbay of yours has any weapons, and all able-bodied men are hard at work saving the lives of your crew?"_

Sherlock Holmes's face had gone increasingly paler as the conversation went on, though he refused to become a distraction by interrupting. Now, his complexion rather a similar shade to the Vulcan's, he exchanged a long look with the First Officer over Kirk's head.

"Doctor, there should be at least fifteen Security personnel on that Deck; hopefully they will dispose of the boarding party before it reaches you. However, Nurse Chapel knows how to lock down Sickbay; have her do so immediately as soon as power is restored to the ship. In the event that any of the _Dracone_ 's men make it past the security precautions, you are instructed to protect the lives of my crew, at _any_ cost."

_"Understood, sir."_

Somewhat surprised at the calm ease with which his friend was apparently taking the news, Holmes's face turned from grey to a slightly more healthy shade of paper, and a thin smile quirked at his mouth. The Vulcan shot him a reassuring look, sensing both the pain the man was in as well as the intense worry hidden admirably behind a calm countenance, before he turned back to his scanner.

"Power will be restored in exactly ten minutes from now, Doctor. Bridge out." Kirk glanced around for a moment. "Mr. Spock, Mr. Holmes, you will be with me. Mr. Sulu, you have the conn. Keep the _Dracone_ on her toes. Protect that Portal, and protect my ship, but don't cut and run unless you absolutely have to. Uhura, try to clear that jamming field; we're going to need all the help we can get and we can't get it if they can't hear us."

"Aye, sir."

"Scotty," Kirk spoke, depressing the button as the young navigator assumed the command chair. "Full power to all systems in nine minutes."

He then heard Uhura speaking softly from behind him. "Mr. Holmes, are you all right, sir?"

He turned to look at their wobbly visitor, but his concern was waved off brusquely. "Quite all right, thank you," the man muttered stubbornly, rubbing the side of his head with one pale hand.

Kirk looked doubtful. "If you say so."

"I certainly do. Besides, you can hardly afford to leave me here if you intend to transport over to that ship belonging to the Professor," the Englishman declared sensibly.

"That is correct," Spock intoned calmly, turning his console over to his replacement. "However, your fainting while we are in the midst of overpowering the _Dracone_ 's Engineering section would not be beneficial to the success of our mission."

Holmes glared at the impassive First Officer. "Does your Vulcan language have an emphatic equivalent to the English phrase of 'Mind your own business'?"

Kirk, already wriggling into position on the ladder inside the scarlet-glowing turboshaft, quickly descended far enough to hide his silent laughter.

The climb down the turboshaft was considerably more difficult than the ascension had been. Long before they reached Deck Four, just before where their progress would be halted by the jammed turbolift, Kirk was out of breath at the rapid descent, and he could hear raspy gasps of air above him that bespoke of the Englishman having some difficulty.

"Holmes, are you sure you're up to this?" Kirk demanded curtly, feeling his footing carefully.

"Quite certain, Captain," the man retorted through his teeth, breathless but sounding extremely affronted at the very idea.

They passed an emergency light, pulsating a reddish haze about them, and from below heard the metallic sounds of tinkering while once a shower of sparks exploded in the darkness accompanied by a tense laugh; no doubt Scotty's men repairing the malfunctioning lift.

"One more deck, Mr. Holmes," Kirk heard his First Officer speak quietly, in a tone that he would have called encouraging on anyone else.

The silence from above was worrisome; he wondered if the Victorian was hurt worse than he had let on. In that century, painkillers were dangerous at worst, semi-effective at best, though; so maybe the man was accustomed to controlling pain. Or else he was just too flat stubborn to own up to being in difficulty.

He smiled in the darkness at the obvious similarities between the man and his Vulcan descendant.

Finally they reached Deck Four and scrambled out into a semi-darkened corridor. Holmes leaned breathlessly against the wall, eyes tightly closed, for a long minute, and then pushed himself resolutely away from the cool support.

Spock shot him a knowing look that spoke volumes. "We have six minutes remaining to be in position for transport, Captain, or lose our advantage of surprise when power is restored to systems," the Vulcan instructed as they started down the corridor to the Jefferies tube that would connect them with the Engineering deck.

"What, exactly, do you intend to do when we get over there?" Holmes asked, rubbing a hand over his eyes with a wince that did not go unnoticed by either officer.

"Disable their engines and weapons, if we're lucky." Kirk yanked the cover off the narrow passage and immediately began crawling. "We have to take Morbus alive, if we can, and send him back so that none of this will have happened in the first place. The timeline must be restored."

Holmes's voice sharpened instantly, stabbing off the walls of the narrow passage in a shower of icy sparks. "You gave your word that you would not force Watson to repeat those three years, Kirk."

The loss of his title did not escape notice, as was the intent. "I don't intend to," Kirk retorted defensively. "But the fact remains that our _immediate_ problem is to stop this maniac from blowing my ship apart!"

"In that case, Captain," a cool voice from the rear remarked with perfect equanimity, effectively breaking up what could have developed into a thoroughly unpleasant clash of duties and personalities, "I suggest we hasten our pace, as we have only four minutes, fifty-two seconds remaining."

"And Watson considers _me_ to be an insufferable know-all," the detective grumbled, scurrying after the fast-retreating figure of the Captain.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

**_Chapter Twenty-Four_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in battle over Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.9_

I am no stranger to war zones, nor the detached efficiency that comes of being in what is commonly referred to as 'battle mode'. However, those days and that atmosphere for me were relics of a bygone age, centuries prior to the timeline in which I was currently stranded, and as such I could only hope that I would perform as capably now as I did then, despite an obvious handicap in lack of knowledge.

McCoy abruptly blew past me from surgery, barking orders at two blue-dressed nurses across the room, and tossed me a strange-looking contraption shaped somewhat like the odd _tricorder_ device Mr. Spock had shown Holmes and me in Baker Street. "Come with me, I need you," he snapped crisply, and I obeyed a superior officer without question. "Hold it, you!" This last to a young man in what seemed to be the modern equivalent to a hospital gown – more like loose trousers and shirt of corresponding blue. "Get your backside back in that bed, d'you hear me? Or I'll pump you so full of painkillers you'll have to be _dying_ to feel anything!"

The poor young fellow, obviously trying to sneak out from the physician's watchful eye, slunk limply back to his bed and all but collapsed under the withering glare.

"Come," McCoy continued without breaking stride, then hollered at the top of his lungs for someone named 'M'Benga' to see to the next emergency surgery waiting in the surgical ward. A dark-skinned man came skidding out from the CMO's office, nodded once, and disappeared through the other doors. "Hold this right here."

He paused beside an unconscious young man who was breathing heavily, and positioned my hands on the instrument he had handed me, holding them and it over the young fellow's ribcage.

"What is this?" I inquired, hoping the question would not be too unnecessary or annoying under the tense circumstances.

"'S called a bone-knitter," was the short, but not unkind, reply. "All you have to do is hold it, and it'll knit his broken ribs back together now that Chapel's set them. I know you're not supposed to learn new tech while you're here, but I need a pair of steady hands for this sort of work. Just hold it 'til I tell you that's enough. NURSE CHAPEL!"

I started, but kept my hands steady, as the man bellowed with the most formidable set of lungs I have encountered in many a year.

The blonde, tall young lady I had met earlier poked her head in the door, glaring disapprovingly. "Yes, Doctor?"

"How many minutes until the power is restored?"

"Six and ten seconds, Doctor."

A faint grin quirked the man's features. "Not taking internal time sense lessons from Mr. Spock, are you, Nurse?"

The young lady blushed most attractively, and it certainly did not take a consulting detective to see exactly how the young woman felt toward the mysterious First Officer. "No, sir. Mr. Scott just informed us of the time twenty seconds ago."

"Good – oh, _shoot_ …" The expletive that fell (a mild modern one, I assumed from the lack of reaction by the lady in front of whom it was dropped) seemed remarkably apt, as a sudden shrill whining sounded in the corridors outside, followed by shouting and what sounded like an explosion.

"I take it that is what your peculiar weapon a _phaser_ sounds like?" I deduced ruefully, refusing to allow my hands to waver where they rested holding the instrument safely over the unconscious patient.

Another explosion sounded, closer this time. McCoy swore, this time in a blue streak, and garnered no more than a tolerant sigh from the nurse as she darted after an alarm sounding over one of the nearby beds. "Five minutes, forty-five seconds until we can initiate lockdown, Doctor," she called, pushing a few buttons and administering an injection of something to the restless woman lying there.

"That may not be sufficient," I warned unnecessarily, as the whine of weapons fire drew steadily nearer.

"Djesre!" McCoy shouted, and a male nurse came running. The physician pointed at me. "Take over here, and tell M'Benga what's going on when he comes out of surgery. If we aren't back by the time Scotty gets the power back up, lock this place down tighter than a Romulan interrogation facility."

"Aye, sir," the young man replied crisply, snatching the bone-knitter from me and immediately applying it. Something thudded into the fore end of the outer wall, and I looked at the other physician, a question in my eyes and the feeling that I would not like the answer in my heart.

"So, Doctor Watson," the man drawled, heading for his private office with me in tow. "How're you with aiming a hand weapon?"

"I have nearly perfect aim, at least with weapons from my own century," I replied, entirely honestly.

I received an incredulous glance, and then McCoy chuckled lightly, moving to what looked to be a wall compartment. He leaned close and an odd beam of light shot out to scan over his eye, whereupon the door swung open to reveal what I presumed was a sort of wall-safe. He withdrew two of the same oddly-shaped weapons we had seen before a couple of times since our arrival – was it only five hours ago? "Humble, eh?"

"Accurate," I retorted calmly.

"Stun, Heavy Stun, Kill," the man instructed, showing me how to set the dial atop the weapon. "It stays on Stun unless for some reason your target doesn’t drop, and try not to aim for the head, that’s how you cause serious brain damage. Just aim and pull the trigger, there’s no safety. Hold the trigger until they fall, but don’t hold it for too long or you’ll damage internal organs.”

It was a deal of information, not all of which I quite understood, but any weapon which did not cause bloodshed was a vast improvement on our century. “Understood,” I replied, examining the trigger mechanism to ensure I would know how to use it when the time came.

“I don't like the way that fighting's still going on down the hall. Security must be hung up in the turboshafts or something, because they should've taken care of a boarding party by now."

"Doctor McCoy," I asked hesitantly, as he propelled me toward the door.

"Yeah?"

"Three minutes, forty-five seconds, Doctor," the nurse called as we passed through the outer ward.

Outside, something whined and I heard a scream cut short enough to turn my stomach. My companion checked his weapon, gesturing impatiently with it in my direction. "Spit it out, man!"

"McCoy, your uniforms all look alike to me, and I am entirely unacquainted with the majority of your crew complement!" I finally exclaimed as he motioned me toward the corridor. "How am I to know who is ally or enemy?"

The man stopped, stared at me, and groaned theatrically.

"I'm sorry!"

"Can you at least guard my back? And if you see someone shooting at anyone in Security Red, go ahead and stun ‘em just for good measure. If they’re friendly, there’ll be no harm done."

"That I can do, gladly."

McCoy grinned. "Then let's move, my archaic medical friend. Chapel, lockdown on schedule, whether we're back or not. Understood?"

"Understood, Doctor. Please be careful."

* * *

By the time they were scrambling into the main Transporter Room to meet a very harried-looking Montgomery Scott, Kirk noticed that the Englishman had turned a slightly sick shade of green, and was weaving on his feet when he thought no one was looking. Once glance at his First Officer, who nodded in silent corroboration, was more than enough to alarm him as to the man's condition. However, the stubborn detective insisted vigorously that he would manage perfectly well, and they frankly didn't have the time to see to him, as Scott was counting down the seconds until his brilliant Engineering staff initiated a full restart on all systems.

Kirk made a note to commend them all in his account to Starfleet – if they survived this renegade mission and Starfleet still existed along with an intact timeline – and took his position on the Transporter pad, Spock beside him and Holmes just behind and to his left. He took the trio of phasers from Scott, instructed Holmes briefly how to use his, warned him to be careful with it, and then they held them at readiness.

"Puttin' ye down as close as I can get to Auxiliary Control, Captain," Scott informed, adjusting a knob on the panel. "But I canna set ye as close as I'd like, because of the risk."

"Risk?" Holmes asked warily.

"Any closer an' ye could materialize inside a bulkhead or something," Scott replied cheerfully, pushing a button until it blinked steadily yellow, adding the color to the reddish emergency lighting and bathing the room in orange.

"That actually _happens_?"

"Only four times in the history of mid-ship transportation experiments. The chances of that eventuality now, with the security measures of distance Mr. Scott has implemented and with my calculations, are less than point-oh-oh-two percent," Spock ventured in what was probably supposed to be reassurance.

The detective made a small _grmf_ sound, grimacing but not complaining.

"Thirty seconds, Captain, and counting."

"Scotty, take care of my ship," Kirk warned lightly as the man began to time the transport to coincide with the power return.

A highly miffed snort. "As if I wouldn't, Captain!"

Kirk smiled tightly, checked his weapon one last time. He glanced over at his First, who stood as calmly as if they were about to beam down to shore leave, and then quickly jerked his head back as his ship began humming, purring beautifully under his feet again, life and light restored in a wave of warming brilliance.

Thirty seconds later, they materialized in the _Dracone_ 's Engineering section. The momentary disorientation from the transport through shielding wore off almost instantly for the two officers, but Kirk lowered his phaser in a quick dive to catch the sagging form of the Englishman as he gave a slight moan of surprise and promptly pitched forward on his face.

"Great," Kirk grunted, grasping the limp arms firmly as the man fell and then leaning the thin figure against the nearest wall. "This is all we need right now!"

Spock ignored the grumbling from his Captain, knowing the human was only worried and not truly so annoyed at Holmes for what he could not help, and simply moved into position to cover the two men with his weapon.

Fortunately, the corridor was deserted due to the skeleton crew of the vessel, though it was unlikely that it would remain so for long.

"Holmes, snap out it," Kirk muttered, gently slapping the Englishman's cheek. "Come on, we don't have time – there we go, that's it." He relaxed the vise-like grip on the man's arms as grey eyes flickered open – considerably dilated, he could see now, but coming alert enough. "You all right for another half-hour?"

Blinking for a moment, Holmes nodded, rubbing the side of his head gingerly. Then, realizing what had happened, a dark flush crept up the pale neck and into his face. "My apologies," he muttered, and staggered to his feet before a surprised Kirk could offer to help.

"Here, easy now."

"It was a difficult transport, through the shields, even lowered as they were," Spock added calmly, catching the man's arm as he wavered unsteadily, "which can disorient even experienced individuals; much less one who has not had a head injury seen to by a qualified physician. Will you be functional for a little longer?"

Holmes nodded, face returning to a more natural shade, and retrieved his fallen phaser, eyeing its discomfiting unfamiliarity with some understandable distaste.

"Come on," the Captain interrupted worriedly as footsteps approached from a main corridor. "Phasers on heavy stun. If we're going to have any sort of advantage over this ship, we've got to disable the shields first, then weapons if we can. Let's move."


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

**_Chapter Twenty-Five_ **

_U.S.S. Dracone, engaging U.S.S. Enterprise over Aeternus_   
_Stardate 3956.9_

The trio moved swiftly down the corridor, and Kirk was immediately grateful that the _Dracone_ seemed to follow the standard layout of that class starships; it eliminated unnecessary meandering around the corridors.

They turned a corner and ran directly into two surprised Engineers, whose immediate dives for the communications system were halted by two quick phaser shots from Vulcan reflexes. The men dropped without a sound, alarming or otherwise, and they bolted for the doors that led to Auxiliary Control.

"Does this seem too easy to you?" Kirk muttered in an undertone as they paused outside, looking at the locked door.

"Most definitely. But have you a different plan, Captain?" his First replied, endeavoring to break the code on the door.

"We _can't_ have another plan," Kirk remonstrated, firing one quick blast at an Ensign who trotted around the corner, stunned before she could even see who they were. "If they fire just one solid hit to our shields, they could destroy my ship!"

"What sort of code locks these doors?" Holmes asked suddenly, peering over the Vulcan's shoulder.

"This one has apparently been personally refitted by Morbus himself…it looks to be some sort of algorithm," the Vulcan replied, his voice tense with concentration.

"Or a theorem?" Holmes asked quietly.

The dark eyes met his for a moment, and then sparked into life. Nimble fingers tapped an impossibly long sequence into the panel, and the doors opened with a whoosh to reveal the brightly-lit Auxiliary Bridge. "The man certainly possesses an inflated ego," Spock observed, for the equation had gone down in ancient British history as a faulty binomial theorem of extremely primitive astrophysics.

"Indeed," Holmes replied, grinning. "I should be glad to discuss his _Dynamics of an Asteroid_ with a race who has actually traveled among said asteroids, at a later date of course. Impressive of you to memorize all details about the man before our arrival, by the way."

Kirk, impatient with the dialogue, had stepped into the room, phaser at the ready. He was quick enough to shout a warning, turn to run for it, but not quick enough to evade the heavy stun that enveloped his nervous system in a blinding flare of neural shock. From a distance he heard Holmes's pained grunt, cut short by striking the floor with some force; barely saw from fast-dimming vision his First Officer standing over him, phaser drawn and firing rapidly, well aware that there was no location to retreat to and that their only hope lay in incapacitating their enemy. The Vulcan calmly took three hits and returned as many successfully before finally being struck with enough stun force to send him sprawling atop his now-unconscious Captain.

"I believe the term is _coup d'maitre_ , Holmes," Professor Moriarty observed with mild respect. "Pity."

* * *

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in battle over Aeternus_

Whatever the Englishman was used to shooting, McCoy thought grimly, he knew what he was about, because he'd been expecting an awkward-at-best battle companion and had gotten a pretty sharp shooter even with the unfamiliar phaser weapon. Satisfied that his back would be sufficiently covered, the CMO calmly took out the two blue-shirted enemy officers who were approaching his Sickbay, malicious purpose gleaming in their eyes. He spared a second to wonder if Moriarty – or whatever they were supposed to call him – had some sort of mental control over the men he commanded from the _Dracone_ , because the men were absolute fools to walk right into an enemy Starship – the flagship of the 'Fleet, yes – and expect to take her over so easily, crippled or not.

Behind him he heard a short grunt and the whine of a phaser. "How many more?" the Doctor asked in his ear.

Without turning his head, he surveyed the now-relatively-quiet corridor. "Should be four more somewhere, but if Security hasn't decked 'em by now then they all need transferred to a Neutral Zone patrol. We may be safe for right now."

"Good…" As the Englishman trailed off, uncertainty flooding his face, the other turned and glanced warily at him.

"You okay?"

"I…do not know," Watson muttered, lowering the weapon he held and reaching a hand to his head. "Something just…does not feel right."

McCoy was no fool, and knew better than to discredit any hunches, even if they were three and a half centuries old. "With you?"

"No," the other physician replied suddenly, understanding lighting up his eyes. "With Holmes – the boarding party. Something is wrong, I'm certain of it!"

McCoy, skeptical, was about to raise an eyebrow but caught himself with a gesture of disgust; last thing he wanted was to start imitating that Vulcan. "Doctor…are you sure?" he asked, wishing he'd tested the man for telepathy or any other latent abilities. They hadn't had the time to run full physicals on the visitors, as policy stated they were required to.

Hesitating only a fraction of a second, the Englishman nodded emphatically. "I cannot tell you how I know, I simply do," he replied earnestly.

"Great, just great."

McCoy glanced back at the closed doors of the Sickbay. Not even he could override the lockdown if initiated from inside, due to safety measures, and no one could override even from inside without Spock's override codes. If alien forces took over the ship, the drugs the 'Bay contained were so dangerous that no one could be allowed to gain access, and as CMO his voice override would be the logical choice to force entry. Hence, he himself had suggested only Spock have override clearance, because he was the one most likely to withstand physical or mental persuasion to override the lockdown.

Which meant, unfortunately, that they could not return, and had to go on themselves. "Lieutenant-Commander Scott is third in command, Doctor, and as such is in charge of things while our superiors are trying to get themselves killed," he informed, punching the nearest intercom. "Scotty, we've got a problem."

_"You've got one! Try havin' a few dozen! We've no warp power, no lift power, and half the systems are goin' haywire here. The whole motherboard looks like someone tried t' repair it with a durasteel-laser, an' half m’laddies are in your Sickbay!"_

McCoy had no time for sympathy over the man's precious engines and consoles. "Listen, Scotty, have you heard from the Captain and his party yet?"

_"No, sir. And before y’ask, I canna lock onto them and I told them that afore they beamed over. I can do nothing until they disable the shielding."_

"But you can still send the two of us over, can't you?" McCoy demanded.

 _"Captain's orders, Doctor. No one's to beam over until he gets the shields down. Here now, there's no need for that, sir,"_ this last in amused response to the CMO's swearing. " _I canna disobey a direct order, y’know that as well as I."_

"Never stopped you before," McCoy muttered ungraciously. "Fine, Scotty. Let me know when you hear from Jim, will you?"

_"Aye, Doctor. Immediately."_

The physician released the panel's button, face twisted with annoyance and indecision. Watson was fidgeting nervously, looking at the fallen men in the corridor. "What now?" he asked quietly. "McCoy, they are in danger. I should know, I've met Professor Moriarty before." Hazel eyes darkened with anger and a good amount of fear; McCoy recognized both with a practiced eye. "Honourable he may be, but now he holds all the trumps and once the pleasure of the game is gone…"

"Wait, wait just a darn minute," the other physician said suddenly, an idea occurring to him. "If it's true, that nothing can happen to you or Holmes because it would alter our timeline…then isn't it true that your professor can't do anything to you two either, for the same reason?"

Watson nodded lowly. "Logical enough," he agreed, brows twisting in thought. But then, his plan must simply be to get Holmes and me back into our own timeline, and then ensure that no one can go back and return him as well…"

"So he's going to shove you two back through the Guardian and then blow it sky-high?"

"Possibly…but somehow I do not think that is what he has in mind. However, it is the most likely possibility. Unless," Watson added soberly, "he will be quite satisfied to take over whatever _remains_ here, if Holmes and I do _not_ return to our own time. I doubt very seriously that it matters to him _what_ universe he rules, or what changes occur in that universe. He thrives on power, McCoy. Any kind of it. Whether your Starfleet continues to exist, or your _Enterprise_ , will make little difference to him in the grand scheme."


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

**_Chapter Twenty-Six_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, engaging U.S.S. Dracone over Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.9_

Because Lieutenant-Commander Montgomery Scott refused in extremely colorful language to leave his engines for even a moment, McCoy insisted the officers' conference be held in Main Engineering. For nearly a half-hour now, the _Dracone_ had merely remained hovering close to the _Enterprise_ , holding a parallel position to the larger starship when Scott ordered Sulu to maneuver about. No further shots had been fired, as if Morbus knew full well that the _Enterprise_ would not try any further moves with her two senior officers aboard as prisoners.

Or, Doctor Watson pointed out soberly as they stood discussing the matter over the main Engineering console, Moriarty knew the _Enterprise_ could not risk doing anything to endanger the life of the Englishman from the past being held aboard.

"I doubt he cares for your Captain and First Officer more than as pawns in his game," Watson added, jaw clenched. "He holds the highest trump card now, and he knows it."

"Aye, that he does…work, blast ye!" Scott banged a fist into the console he was re-wiring, causing an indignant bleep to sound before the thing fired into brilliantly-lit life again. "That's me girl," the man muttered happily, scooting to finish the wiring on the back of the next console. "I'll have those lifts workin' in another ten minutes…"

McCoy shook his head at the method of repair work but didn't have the time to discuss it. "Scotty, are you just gonna sit here and let them do who-knows-what to the Captain? We have to _do_ something!"

"What, exactly?" the man pointed out sensibly; he had not made Lieutenant-Commander for his skill in jury-rigging transporters alone. "We're outgunned, half-crippled, we've got to protect this here Doctor at the cost of everything we have, and if we try to transport over there not only do we not have a guarantee we'll get through – because they know now we were only faking being crippled an' they'll have fully raised those blasted shields – but we'll be disobeying the Captain's direct orders. Would ye have me do that?"

" _Yes_ ," McCoy retorted.

Scott chuckled indulgently. "Y'know that is not an option. The Captain would have a fit, and besides we’ve already royally botched this mission, I am not about to put the Captain’s reputation further down the black hole by disregarding his orders. Here we sit, until the Dracone makes the next move."

"Well, I know _you_ aren’t about to risk Jim’s reputation," McCoy drawled slowly, an idea obviously occurring to him. He flicked a glance over toward the English physician, who returned with a quizzical eyebrow. "But if you were to become…say, medically incapacitated and incapable of assuming command…"

"Then you as the only remaining Lieutenant-Commander could, theoretically, assume command, and no one would be the wiser," Scott agreed cheerfully, though he knew enough to shoot both men a stern glare over the console. "But I warn ye, Doctor, ye stick me with one of your infernal hypos and these engines will never get up and running in this or any other century."

"Oh, I wouldn't _dream_ of it, Scotty." A smirk began to crawl up the physician's face. "But I was only just about to inform you, as well as the crew, that I've discovered that our esteemed visitors from the past have brought with them a pretty nasty little virus. Highly contagious, I would say requiring complete quarantine. Wouldn't you agree, Doctor Watson?"

Watson started in surprise, and then met the CMO's elbow in the ribs with a quick "Oh, quite. I…er…must apologize for Mr. Holmes, Commander…you see, he was quite ill the week before your Captain came for us, and I'm afraid the infection must have returned in the…shock of transfer into your timeline. You, having spent all that time with Holmes this morning…I'm afraid you've become highly contagious."

Hiding his laughter behind a hand over his lips, McCoy's smirk nonetheless leaked out both sides to mock the incredulous Engineer as he spluttered, "You canna be serious – what sort of bug?"

"Oh, it's a nasty little thing. What was it you called it, Watson?"

"Erm…the…" Watson coughed. "Well, specialists of our time are calling it the…Black Formosa Corruption?"

"There, you see? Even _sounds_ nasty," McCoy added helpfully.

"Gentlemen, I dinna believe you are telling me the truth."

"Possibly not," Watson agreed with a smile at the other physician. "But if I understand your regulations correctly…"

"You're being confined to this already-contaminated room, Mr. Scott," McCoy finished, folding his arms and silently daring the man to contradict him. "Due to medical quarantine, as Chief Medical Officer I am hereby relieving you of command until a suitable cure for the infection has been found. Please note the time and date in the ship's log."

"But –"

"Or at least until Kyle has transported the Doctor and me over to the _Dracone_ and you can get those repairs finished," McCoy shot flippantly over his shoulder as the doors creaked open, still sluggish from the power drain.

Scott had been well aware all along of this exact outcome; it was inevitable, when confronted with a Leonard McCoy worried over James Kirk. He'd seen it too often to be surprised, and was nobody's fool; he'd known exactly what would happen. There was a reason the _Enterprise_ was the longest posting the CMO had ever held; between his insolence and willingness to break regulation in order to save lives, any lives, he had been foisted among half-a-dozen starships before finally meeting a captain who was his match if not superior in willpower.

Now, tempered with experience, McCoy was saving both their reputations by legal loopholing, and doing a fine job of it too, though he held doubts as to whether the _Dracone_ 's shields would allow transport through. Whatever happened, if his three superiors and the two visitors from the past couldn't get them out of it, he dead sure couldn't; and so worrying was not, as Mr. Spock would say, logical. As they all well knew, with the two senior officers gone Scott himself must remain aboard ship to take command should something go badly wrong. His hands were tied, by Kirk’s own orders, and he would not betray his duty no matter how much he’d like to board that ship himself and give the Englishman from the past a piece of his mind.

Besides, he had a dilithium crystal chamber to repair, among other things, and no one could do it better. But just out of curiosity…

"Computer. Medical library, Earth dates 1880 to 1900. Search for 'Black Formosa Corruption.'"

" _Working_ …"

* * *

_U.S.S. Dracone, engaging U.S.S. Enterprise over Aeternus_

James Kirk was accustomed to rude awakenings, but when the usual grogginess was accompanied by blinding pain in every nerve and then the realization that he'd walked into a trap like a first-trimester cadet… He moaned expressively in an effort to convey his exasperation.

"I suggest you rouse yourself, Captain, as the effects will dissipate with movement."

"Go. _Away_. Spock."

"Impossible at this time." He could tell, even without opening his eyes, that the Vulcan was more amused than anything else. "We are imprisoned in what I presume is the _Dracone_ 's brig. Somewhat more crude than the _Enterprise_ 's, but just as escape-proof, I fear."

Groaning as his muscles cramped from the effects of the stun, Kirk opened his eyes, grimaced, and then swung his legs numbly over the side of the small cot. Considering that he had been lying in relative comfort on his back, he judged that Spock had been thoughtful enough to put him there after his First had returned to consciousness, rather than his being thrown there by their captors.

Suddenly he realized they were the only two occupants of the cell. "Where's Holmes?" he demanded, instantly alert.

The Vulcan shook his head, running experimental hands over the walls on either side of the invisible force-field that served as a door. "He was absent when I regained consciousness, Captain. We may safely assume that he is being questioned by the captain of this vessel."

Kirk stumbled to his feet, shivered as his stomach rolled around in protest, and then promptly sat back down again to rub his neck. "Ughh," he muttered succinctly.

Spock did spare him a glance, but knew the effects would wear off momentarily and so did not waste precious seconds in unnecessary concern. "The cell appears to have been re-fitted, as the shields and most other systems of this ship seem to have been," he reported, a flicker of annoyance tingeing the cool voice. " _Quite_ escape-proof."

"Guards?"

"Only one at the end of the corridor."

"That could work to our advantage, this skeleton crew. How many of them are there left?"

"If our own crew were successful in neutralizing and imprisoning the seventeen of the boarding parties, then there are forty-three crewmen aboard this vessel at the present time, though possibly fewer. I was unable to check for casualties aboard before we beamed over."

The flooring seemed relatively stable, once his head had stopped spinning, when he again attempted to stand. Sore from the effects of the stun, he gingerly began to pace in a small circle to restore circulation to cramped muscles. "How long were we out?"

"I, ten minutes, fifteen seconds. You, another four minutes and thirty-three seconds."

He halted, looked over his shoulder. "Shouldn't you have come to a lot quicker than that?"

The Vulcan offered a resigned lift of the eyebrows. "You were stunned once, I several times." Kirk's hand clenched, though his First pretended not to notice, continuing with a sly "I do not believe the Commander to be appreciative of my resistance…or my marksmanship."

Kirk gave a snort of laughter, but no more, as the situation was hardly amusing. "Fifteen minutes," he mused with a frown. "What in the world are they doing with Holmes?"

"You are worried." It was an observation, not a question.

"You bet I am! If the man gets himself killed, our whole timeline will explode!"

"Hardly such a violent destruction, Captain –"

"You know what I mean!" The grogginess entirely faded now, the Captain's tone was snappish with tension, as if he expected his XO to melt away in front of him as the timeline disappeared. "And why hasn't he done anything to the _Enterprise_? What is he _waiting_ for?"

"Captain." Kirk glanced up into calm dark eyes, and felt a clench of foreboding in his stomach. "Perhaps it has not occurred to you, that this Morbus may quite possibly have no desire whatsoever to harm us or destroy the _Enterprise_?"

"Could have fooled me," Kirk growled, still smarting over how easily they had been out-maneuvered due to sheer superiority in technology and equipment. The Vulcan waited calmly for the outburst of irritation to cool, and finally was waved to continue. "Go on. What do you suspect then?"

"I suspect," Spock replied soberly, with a glance at the impenetrable door of their prison, "that Moriarty's first choice would be to induce Holmes to join him. To waste resources, or throw away such incredible opportunities for alliance, is simply not logical."

Kirk stared, eyes flickering in comprehension. "But Holmes would never even think about it," he protested, though he wished he could know that for certain. He didn't really know the man, after all, but somehow it didn't seem likely that Holmes could be swayed by an old enemy to do something so drastic.

"I would be inclined to agree, Captain," his companion replied, though his voice betrayed the slight twinge of unease. Kirk felt his hands grow colder as the tone hardened, mercilessly frank. "But we have no idea what sort of persuasion this man is capable of inflicting. However strong-willed, mentally and physically he may be, Holmes is…only human."


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

**_Chapter Twenty-Seven_ **

_U.S.S. Dracone, engaging U.S.S. Enterprise over Aeternus_

_Stardate 3956.9_

After another five minutes, Kirk had been zapped twice by trying futilely to disarm the force-field, despite his First Officer's remark that such actions would not in any way facilitate their escape, and in consequence was in even a more sour mood than he had been before. Spock had spent the seconds in careful examination of the walls, flooring, and ceiling of the cell, but with no encouraging results.

"Obviously, the man is certainly Holmes's intellectual equal, and thereby nearly mine," he finally informed the Captain, eyes contracted in annoyance. "This cell is indeed escape-proof, even to me."

"Unacceptable, Mr. Spock. If we don't get out of here, we're all going to be in serious trouble. For all we know, Moriarty could have already taken over the _Enterprise_ and killed Holmes and the Doctor by now."

"Moriarty would have no reason to have made such a drastic action in only a quarter of an hour, Captain, and if he had, then we would know, simply because our timeline would have begun to change and I likely would not be present. If he is to persuade Holmes to become an ally, then this short amount of time is not sufficient to fully convince him." Kirk nodded uneasily. "And as to the _Enterprise_ –"

"I know, I know," Kirk sighed, sinking back onto the small bunk. "Have more faith in my crew."

"Indeed, sir."

"All right, then, Plan B." Amber eyes looked up at his First Officer expectantly. "Do you think you can mentally coax that guard down here to deactivate the force-field?"

A faint sparkle lit in the dark depths. "I was about to suggest it. A moment, Captain."

Nodding, Kirk remained respectfully motionless and silent to allow the Vulcan full concentration. Spock remained near the door, eyes closed and hands tightly clasped together, for a short time, and then carefully began the process, placing both hands upon the wall beside the force-field door and projecting a cautious thought toward the half-dozing guard. Encountering an unexpected amount of mental awareness for one so disinterested in his post, he paused and, flicking a slightly mystified glance at his watching Captain, carefully channeled more effort into the subconscious contact…

…And suddenly encountered a mental wall of impenetrable, opaque ice, sharply protruding from and around the ensign's consciousness. For one instant he attempted to locate a weak place in the shimmering, opalescent barrier, but then a frozen tendril shot out to repel him, a stab of chilled agony so solid that its force physically threw him backward in shock and pain. Staggering, he heard the distant yelp of surprise from the guard being echoed by a voice closer, as steadying arms caught him while the floor spun in a dizzying revolution beneath his feet.

"Spock! Spock, are you all right?"

The voice was filtering in gradually through the fog of cold; he shook his head in affirmation while his consciousness came back to rest on firm ground again. He only realized he was shivering, chilled to the very core of his being, when he was unceremoniously pushed onto the small bunk, the thin blanket wrapped tightly about his shoulders. Jim was kneeling in front of him, eyes darkening with worry and controlled anger, hands clenched before him in the woolen covering.

"What on earth was that?" he asked softly when he saw the Vulcan's comprehension return.

Shaking his head, Spock spared a glance out at the now fully-alert, if confused, guard at the end of the corridor. "That man…" He paused for breath, shivered again despite his wish to not outwardly show what the effort had cost him. "…is not under his own mental control, Captain."

"That much I gathered," Kirk responded worriedly. "What did he do to you?"

"Nothing…merely, the defenses built by another around his mind are sufficient to repel any mental invader, however subtle." The chill was fast ebbing now, though he was grateful for the small warmth of the blanket for a few more minutes. "Someone, or something, has put those barriers into place. I am afraid, Captain, we must assume that in the last three years this Moriarty has discovered that he is a latent telepath. And an extremely powerful one."

* * *

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was, like his distant descendant, quite capable of managing pain and deceiving others regarding its intensity; a practice he had been forced to adopt and hone into a fine art when he had begun sharing rooms with the most observant retired army surgeon in the British Empire. His current position was no exception, and he was grateful for the control that prevented him from demonstrating to his nemesis just how poorly he was faring under the lights and sounds of the room in which he was currently imprisoned, facing his enemy across a small table containing nothing he might use for an impromptu weapon.

Moriarty, conversely, freely admitted to himself that the Englishman was eliciting a grudging admiration; he had found out for himself just how badly a human from the past could react to a phaser stun his first week in this universe, and when added atop injuries already sustained, the detective's control was beyond admirable.

"I can have my ship's doctor give you something for the pain, you know," Moriarty offered with sincere gallantry.

"And risk having it be a cocaine overdose?" Holmes retorted wryly, though at the moment even that beckoning oblivion was rather more attractive than his current status. "I think not, Professor."

"Such drugs have become illegal and obsolete in this century, but your hesitation is understandable." The Professor's hooded eyes gleamed in appreciation. "However, injured you are of no use to me; you could at least allow me to offer you a mild pain reliever."

For his offer, he was repulsed by a glare of pure venom. "I shall be of no use to you either way, and so I pray you to not waste your false sympathy."

"We will speak of that in a moment." Unperturbed, the man rose, preening the sleeves of the gold uniform with loving cat-like care. "A brandy, at least? It is the genuine article, not that dreadful synthehol they tend to approve aboard these vessels."

"No."

The lack of a _thank-you_ in addendum was not lost on the mathematician, and he smiled over the snifter. "As you like, Holmes."

The detective shifted slightly in the chair; comfortable though it was (Moriarty was, at least, evidently not intending him any immediate harm), his stomach threatened in no uncertain terms that rapid movement could be disastrous. In addition, the table before him insisted upon wavering slightly every few moments, in synch with the throbbing fire that pulsated steadily behind his eyes. Still, he resolutely pushed the sensations to the back of his formidable mind.

"What have you done with the Captain and his friend?"

Moriarty drained the small glass and took his seat once more. "Friend? My dear Holmes, _really_. The man is a Vulcan, and as such claims no friends." Holmes was silent, for the matter was certainly none of the Professor's business and he would never betray another's privacy. "But," the man continued reassuringly, "they have not been harmed. Men from this century are far more resilient from the effects of a stun weapon than our kind would be."

At least they would not be feeling as he did at the moment. Good.

"Professor…I am curious," he began, truthfully enough.

"I rather thought you might be." A feral smile twisted the pale face. "Afraid I am going to send you and the good Doctor back through the Portal and then destroy it?"

"That, or simply destroy us and, by extension, this timeline. From what I understand, the results could be disastrous."

Moriarty nodded. " _Too_ disastrous, Holmes. I've no intention of changing this timeline if it can be helped. You are aware I am a mathematician above all else; I deal in certainties, not variables.”

"Radical factors must be eliminated, and thereby equations balanced," Holmes supplied, as vague tendrils of remembered threats from years gone by surfaced in his somewhat muddled thoughts.

"Precisely. My first preference would _not_ be to chance changing this timeline. The risk of what I have built here being destroyed by killing you in this century is certainly not my choice of gamble. Being a distant ancestor of the _Enterprise_ 's Mr. Spock poses something of a complication for me, Holmes. I have feelings for that ship, and if the Vulcan does not exist then, most likely, neither will the _Enterprise_ , as the fellow has saved the ship more than once prior to this Stardate."

That explained some loose ends. "You want the _Enterprise_."

"Naturally," the man replied, tapping thin fingers upon the table in his repressed greed. "She is the flagship of this Empire, Holmes, though they do not call it such. If I command the _Enterprise_ , I will be able to command the galaxy in time."

"And exactly how do you propose to assume command of that ship? You can hardly do it the same way as you have with this one," Holmes pointed out sensibly.

"The game, as we would say, Holmes, is now up." Hooded eyes tightened into malevolent slits. "There is no need for further subterfuge. I have learned what I wished to learn about this world, and unleashed a power within me that you and I and all the poor mortals in our time never dreamed even existed. I have what I need to create a new Empire, Holmes – and without the mass destruction of monarchies and peoples as our own time is preparing to do even as we speak."

A sudden chill seemed to seep into the room, wrapping threads of ice around the detective's very soul. He suddenly realized that he was shivering, unable to control the motion, though Moriarty appeared completely unaffected.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, refusing to allow his teeth to chatter. It was a pity he could not further control the pounding of his heartbeat, a repetitive throbbing crash in his ears.

"I?" Pure innocence, coating and masking the core of malice, fairly exuded from the man's pleasant smile. "Are you feeling quite well, Holmes?"

He was not, in fact, though he would never had admitted the difficulty he was having. Even lost in a blizzard off the mountains of Tibet, he had never felt such bone-penetrating cold; no words were sufficient to fully describe the stabbing agony of it. And then the ache in his head suddenly flared, screaming a warning to his overly-active instincts. He distantly heard his chair thud over on its back as he hurled himself to his feet, fists clenched upon the tabletop.

"Stop!" he shouted, before he even realized why, or wondered how he knew the horror of what was happening to him.

And just as suddenly, it did, leaving him swaying drunkenly on shaky legs.

"Sit _down_ ," Moriarty ordered coolly. "Unless you would prefer another demonstration, one where I actually _enter_ your mind instead of merely _touching_ it."


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**_Chapter Twenty-Eight_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, engaging U.S.S. Dracone over Aeternus_   
_Stardate 3956.9_

McCoy was in the middle of browbeating a very harried and close-to-insubordination-due-to-extreme-frustration Lieutenant Kyle when he broke off suddenly, seeing the Englishman, standing quietly across the room, suddenly stagger and place a hand on the wall for support.

"What is it?" he demanded, jumping over repair debris from the Transporter console to grab the other's shoulder.

"I don’t know…something terrible." Watson straightened up gradually, the color returning slightly to his pale face. "It's Holmes…he is in trouble, McCoy, and in incredible pain. I can’t tell you how I know."

If he'd had any doubts before, he had none now. Obviously the man was not psi-null, at the very least. Empathic, telepathic, or a combination of both, but he _was,_ and proximity to others like him or the shock of time travel or a combination of the two had triggered the ability. McCoy had seen that look often enough on one or both his superiors' faces to know a shallow mental link when he saw one, even if this man had no idea he shared one with his friend.

"We're running out of time," he barked sharply, turning back to the hapless Lieutenant. "Get us over there, Kyle."

"Doctor, I can't! And it's not out of loyalty to Mr. Scott, either!" the poor man cried, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "Mr. Scott figured out a way to get through the shields when the pulsating power source they're using – we dunno what it is – when it cycled through and restarted. The shields were only up at seventy-two percent anyhow then because we were pretty much dead in the water and they didn't need them up at full, and they dropped by twelve percent every sixty seconds for a space of ten seconds. He managed to create a window we could transport through, if we timed the transport to happen when that tiny window opened." The young man held up one hand in demonstration, intersecting the tips of his fingers with the palm of his other. "It's a funnel effect, so we can't reach through the narrow funnel opening to retrieve the Captain and Mr. Spock. And once our power went back up, the _Dracone_ 's shields went back to ninety-five percent. There's not enough time or enough window to get you through them now!"

Watson's face, composed enough but deadly pale, turned toward the furious CMO. "In that case," he ventured calmly, "we must make _them_ transport us, as we know they are somehow capable of it."

McCoy cocked an eyebrow speculatively. "If I know Jim, he probably has already come to that same conclusion.”

* * *

_U.S.S. Dracone, engaging U.S.S. Enterprise over Aeternus_

"I hate to use the same trick twice, but…" Kirk rubbed his neck meaningfully, casting a rueful glance at his calm companion.

Spock gave a tolerant sigh, folding the blanket into a perfectly equilateral shape and placing it neatly upon the bunk. "You _are_ aware that there exists no such thing as a 'Vulcan Death Grip', and that Morbus may also be aware of that fact? Also, he may not be deceived by our beginning and continuing a violent altercation in this cell?"

The Captain smirked. "I'm sure you'll think of something to make it look convincing. Anyhow, we've got to get that guard in here and have him transport McCoy over. Personally I'd rather get neck-pinched than throw myself into that force-field, and we can't afford for _you_ to be out of commission in some Vulcan trance-thing."

Spock frowned at his flippancy, but agreed that they had very little time to consider alternatives; the mental shielding around their guard indicated an enormous control Morbus held over his crew, one that Holmes himself would not be able to withstand alone.

"And what do you intend to do if they refuse to call McCoy? You cannot awaken yourself; a neural stimulator is essential if you are to regain life signs within an hour."

Kirk glanced once more at the half-puzzled guard standing stiffly at the end of the corridor, and his face grew pensive. "Hope…that Scotty or you can work a miracle, I suppose," he answered quietly. “We’re out of options at this point. And I’m not going to lose this timeline without a fight. To the end, if that’s what it takes.”

Nodding in resignation to what could not be changed, only gambled upon, his First Officer stood at attention, hands clasped behind him. "Shall we begin, then?"

Assuming a pleading expression reminiscent of a child begging for a new toy, Kirk looked up at the tall Vulcan with a small grin. "Let me get one good punch in at least before you nail me? Salvage my pride a little?"

The corners of the dark eyes crinkled momentarily. "I will endeavor to hold back somewhat, Captain."

* * *

The ache behind his eyes was intensifying, even though he believed whatever influence Moriarty was exerting had been temporarily paused; perhaps the concussion he had sustained was far worse than he had originally thought. Rubbing furiously at his temple, he reached down to retrieve the chair and sank down into it with a nearly-silent moan.

"That is better," the Professor observed cheerfully. "It would be quite a shame to damage that brilliant mind of yours before you have heard my proposal, Holmes."

"Indulge my curiosity, Professor," he managed to say with admirable calm. "What, exactly, did you just do to me?"

"My dear Holmes, you know yourself that your future descendants will integrate themselves into the Vulcan race. Have you learned about their non-human abilities? The nearly-perfect memory, superior strength…and the telepathy?"

"Touch-telepathy, only.”

“Semantics, my dear sir. The base principle is the same, I assure you.”

“You have discovered, through this century's knowledge and technology, that you are considerably telepathic yourself." The dull statement was made in a flat tone of defeat, only partially put-on.

"Quite so." Moriarty beamed as if at a particularly bright pupil, and he was forced to repress a shiver of loathing. "The power of the _mind_ , Holmes – what could be more appealing to you and me, eh? I have learned in three years to control the ability, and exert it where necessary. It made taking over this ship so very easy."

He could have seen this coming, had he known more of what these mental "abilities" truly entailed; even in London, he had been aware of the peculiarly compelling, almost hypnotic force that Moriarty had exerted over his organization. A literal army of men – and a not-inconsiderable number of women – had followed the Napoleon of Crime blindly, loyal to the point of death if need be, with little enough reward; and the strange aura of power the man seemed to possess had always been a puzzling factor. That curiously reptilian gaze that could pin a man in place like a butterfly on a pin…it all was so much clearer now. If only he had had all the facts at his disposal before!

"What of those whom you could not influence?"

"Some minds, Holmes – like yours, and that Vulcan's – are far too strongly guarded to be influenced by mere suggestion; such minds know instantly when someone is attempting to enter, and immediately snap into defense, as yours just did." Hooded eyes glinted in predatory anticipation. "Those unable to be influenced with a modicum of effort were eliminated once they were no longer necessary to my mission; I have no time to waste in convincing underlings. I am sure your Captain Kirk has already clarified to you that the crew of this vessel has…shall we say, become much more selective, in the last few months.”

“Then they are completely under your control, and you have murdered hundreds who refused to bow to your will.”

“Such a dramatic way of phrasing it. You could yourself write those stories the Doctor composes so well.” Moriarty waved a languid hand of dismissal. “But you, however, are an entirely different matter, Holmes."

Somewhat relieved that he at least could not be controlled without a struggle, Holmes relaxed slightly. "You will not find it so easy to influence my actions, Professor."

"No, I do not believe I will," Moriarty replied, his voice dangerously soft. "But I have discovered, Holmes, that those individuals who feel deeply, have the ability to care deeply for others… _empaths_ , they call them in this century…are quite easily controlled after a first, albeit excruciatingly painful, resistance. Have you not wondered why nearly every uniform remaining on this ship is Medical Blue?"

Holmes's mouth went completely dry, for even without the ability to read minds he was able to make the correct deductions; and his opponent knew it perfectly well. Moriarty had learned much in three years, and had discovered the one vital chink in the detective's armor.

"You would not…"

"You are quite aware that I _would_. And now, Holmes," his old nemesis intoned quietly. "Shall we talk business?"

* * *

Yawning widely (after making sure his face was turned from the security camera, for the new Captain when angry was quite dangerous), two-year Ensign Jeshua Corban leaned himself comfortably against the wall of the corridor, bored to the hilt and wishing for more excitement than guarding two prisoners, however famous they were supposed to be. Indeed, he'd been the target of much envious and cautious speculation after being yanked from the Mess to guard the two officers, because The-Kirk-and-Spock were reputed to be able to escape from anywhere and any _thing_. Stories were still told, embellished, and retold in cadet dormitories about the rescue operations of Jairus V, and the escape from the Klingon slave colony on Beta Atlantis. Captain James Kirk and his Vulcan First were legendary, and the stories about them the stuff that myths were made of.

And also, if this imprisonment were anything to go by, those stories were also extremely over-exaggerated.

He scowled at the wall, for nothing more exciting had happened than a small commotion in the cell just after he had almost dozed off; but after he'd looked inside, he only saw the two prisoners talking calmly on the bunk the cell boasted as its only resting place. He'd sat through health-in-deep-space lectures in the Academy that were more engaging than this day had been. Instead of taking over the _Enterprise_ like they could have, Captain Morbus had decided instead to suddenly assume diplomatic relations with some foreigner he apparently used to know long ago.

Boring, boring, _boring_.

As if to mock his dwindling interest in all things ship-related, a sudden scuffle followed by a yell of rage drew his waning attention back toward the brig. Surely the two officers hadn't got cabin fever _this_ quickly? Weren't starship captains made of sterner stuff than that?

Three long strides brought him to the door of the cell in time to see the human slammed up against the wall, pinned by one thin, inhumanly strong arm. The Captain was choking, face turning a shade of dark magenta.

 _Crap_. He'd only seen an angry Vulcan once, and had hoped to never see one again except in nightmares. And to make matters worse, Morbus had threatened him with instant court-martial if anything at all happened to either of the _Enterprise_ officers.

Suddenly one phaser did not seem a sufficient weapon, and he pounded the intercom demanding reinforcements. Kirk appeared only half-conscious by the time he returned to the cell, hand poised to knock down the force-field, but somehow managed to break free of the Vulcan, ducking low and darting backward toward the opposite wall as the other advanced.

"The truth hurts, doesn't it?" the human was shouting, his eyes burning with the legendary Kirk anger mingled with the pain of betrayal. "You knew what was happening all along! You're more concerned with saving your own skin if Holmes dies than you are with protecting my ship!"

Silent, angry Vulcans were far more dangerous than out-of-control, shouting ones, Corban knew that much. Kirk gave a small yelp of fear as impossibly large hands reached for him, shrinking back into the furthest corner and clutching futilely at the thin wrists. Fingers moved calmly, inexorably, toward the juncture between neck and shoulder as well as the human's face.

Corban quickly keyed in the unlock code, phaser aimed at the looming figure of the blue-shirted _Enterprise_ officer. "Hold it!" he shouted, hoping sheer volume would cover the sound of his knees knocking. "Let go of him…"

But Kirk had already tumbled to the floor in a stiffening heap.


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

**_Chapter Twenty-Nine_ **

_U.S.S. Dracone, engaging U.S.S. Enterprise over Aeternus_   
_Stardate 3957.1_

"You will forgive me, I am sure, but I really should ask before proceeding – if I were to release you, would you be willing to simply take Dr. Watson and return to your own time period, leaving me in this one?" The glare of icy fury Moriarty received was answer enough, and the man sighed knowingly. "I did need to ask, Holmes."

Holmes dismissed the unnecessary explanation with a limp wave, very much wishing that the room would remain in focus for longer than three and a half seconds at a time. "You know as well as I that I cannot make such a decision, Professor. Pray do not make history repeat itself. I will not drop the case, no matter how I became involved in it."

"My dear Mr. Holmes," the reptilian head moved in hypnotic determination, "you understand that history is _destined_ to repeat itself. You are out-maneuvered, out-weaponed, out-numbered. Your refuge, the _Enterprise_ , will shortly be under my command and its officers prisoners in the war I am commencing upon this entire universe. You and the Doctor are the only radical factors in the equation, Holmes. You see my difficulty."

The detective was silent; truth required no countering, and besides he was uncertain that his head would cease pulsating long enough to cogitate a sufficiently logical response. Moriarty tugged absently on the sleeves of the odd uniform, and then looked up, the malice fading slightly from his cold eyes.

"Holmes, there is no shame in conceding the field of battle, if the battle has been fought with honour. Oh, pray do not give me that look; it is hardly dignified nor is it productive."

"What, exactly, are you suggesting, Professor?"

Steepling his fingers in an unconsciously mocking gesture, the mathematician leaned forward over the table, tone lowered reasonably. "I have already stated, that my preference certainly would be to send you and the Doctor back to your own time, leaving me free in this unchanged one. However," he continued, leaning back in a relaxed pose, "if this timeline _must_ be changed because I cannot convince you to return, then I should like to make the most of my resources here."

Holmes smiled sardonically. "You wish me to join you, is that it? Have three years entirely taken away your knowledge of my character?"

"Certainly not," the Professor declared emphatically. "But I would venture to say that my arguments now could be…slightly more convincing than they were in our own century."

Silent, the detective quirked a quizzical eyebrow.

"Do you truly have any conception of what this timeline offers, Holmes? The discoveries, the technology…the everyday occurrences that our own people would call miracles?"

"Such as?"

"The medical progress, for one," the man replied with devious calm, watching his opponent's reactions carefully. "Are you aware that this century possesses the power to heal nearly any injury or illness? War wounds, for example, would be but hours’ work in a starship’s Sickbay."

Not expecting that extremely unfair tactic, Holmes blinked in thoughtful surprise but wisely said nothing.

"Think about it, Holmes – to never see him limp again." Moriarty's eyes softened disarmingly. "Then, too, there is your own addiction you are in constant battle with. I assure you, within a week you could be free of it, without the painful withdrawal symptoms required of our time."

"You seem to be even more well-informed regarding my personal affairs than you were three years ago, Professor. But tempting as those offers sound, they are not close to enough to make me consider what you propose."

"Then pray allow me to elaborate?"

"I would be interested in hearing your plans," Holmes drawled, genuinely amused at the man's self-confidence.

"I would rather show you, than tell you. Are you physically able to tour this ship?"

The detective very much doubted his waning strength, physical and mental, would last the entire tour, but in the open it would be much easier and hold more opportunities to escape than being trapped in this small briefing room. He would hold out as long as he could, in the hopes that he could find a way to complete the mission for which they had transported over to this ship in the first place.

"Lead on, Professor."

* * *

_U.S.S. Enterprise, engaging U.S.S Dracone over Aeternus_

"I could've told y’both that, Leonard." The kind tone, tempered with the man's first name, told the Englishman more than the words how worried both officers were for their superiors' safety. "But ye wouldn't have listened to me, not in that state."

McCoy sank down on a nearby overturned storage unit. "So we can't get through to them. It's been forty minutes since we took out their boarding parties, and they haven't made a single next move. What are we going to _do_?"

"Well…" Scott grunted, soldering a circuit. Above his head, blue and yellow lights suddenly blinked cheerfully, the unit whistling as if in approval. "Haha, that's done it! We've got lift power!" The Commander thumbed the comm-unit. "DeSalle, have ye got the lifts unjammed?"

_"Aye, Mr. Scott. The last one was released just a minute ago. All units fully functional."_

"Good. Bridge, get me Security."

_"Tompkins here, Mr. Scott."_

"Have we got the prisoners safely stowed in the brig?"

 _"All seventeen of them, sir. Only three of 'em have come to yet, though. Should I have a nurse come down and see to them?"_  
  
"Nooo," the man drew the syllable out as he concentrated on moving a console back to the wall with the quick help of the Englishman standing nearby. "Sickbay's still locked down for another hour and a half, anyhow. And we need 'em to remain out of commission as long as possible. Stand by for further orders. Scott out."

Disinterestedly cupping his chin in his hand, McCoy watched as the now-happy Scotsman toddled off to coax his engines into working order. After a moment of nervous pacing, the Englishman settled down beside the ship's physician, absently nudging a stray laser-torch with a booted toe.

"Waiting is the hardest part of any battle, is it not?" he asked conversationally after a long pause, broken only by the hum of power being restored to minor system operations around them.

The CMO started, looked out of the corner of one eye at his companion's surprisingly calm face. "Yeah, I suppose it is," he agreed after a while. "Specially when you know there's trouble and you can't do a single blessed thing about it."

Watson was silent for a moment, watching the bustle of engineers at work. "You are close friends with the Captain and Mr. Spock, then," he observed at last.

McCoy snorted, chuckled wryly. "Jim and I've known each other forever, seems like. And as to Spock…well…" the physician paused, grinned. "I like to drive him nuts, but…yeah. He's a good friend, Watson. And if you ever tell him that, I'll have to kill you."

"I could tell you were enjoying yourselves, even when you were fighting with each other," Watson replied, smiling.

Now was as good a chance as any, he supposed, to find out the extent of what he suspected regarding the man's abilities. "How did you know?" he asked, turning to face the other man.

Puzzled, the Englishman shook his head. "I've no idea…I can just tell if someone really cares for another or dislikes him, that is all."

"Tell me…can you always sense what's happening to your friend, Mr. Holmes?"

" _Sense_ is rather a strong name for it," Watson shrugged easily. "It is more of an instinct than anything else. It served me well in Afghanistan, at any rate. The Second Afghan War…" he added, seeing the befuddled expression on the CMO's face. "Probably ancient and unimportant history to you."

"Ah. But you can tell when Holmes is in trouble?"

"Not always, just occasionally. Holmes calls it intuition, but I seem to be right about it more often than he." Hazel eyes darkened, and the man looked downward sadly at his twisting fingers. "The day Moriarty disappeared from our timeline, I could tell something was wrong…but I had no idea what, or when, and so did not act in time to prevent the Professor from nearly killing Holmes."

McCoy nodded, letting the soothing silence of the engines thrum in the stillness for a moment before answering. "That's one heck of a load of guilt to carry for three years."

The Englishman's head shot upward, eyes darting quickly to the other's surprisingly gentle face. "How did you know?"

He grinned at the reversal. "I may not be empathic, but Jim's always said I make a darn good shrink."

"A what?"

"A…" What was the obsolete term? "An alienist?"

"Ah." Skeptical understanding; if he remembered correctly, such were viewed with disdainful wariness back in the day. "Is your degree in psychiatric study, then?"

"No, my main doctorate is in xenobiology, which is basically a study of life, not just humanoid. But enough about me." McCoy stretched his legs out in front of him, watching with amused interest as Scott crooned quietly over a sparking console. "We may not get a chance to talk much, if the universe explodes in a while. You've got to be feeling _something_ about all this."

The Englishman smiled thinly. "Practicing psychology on a colleague without his permission is considered in bad taste in my century, McCoy."

Unperturbed, the other smirked. "We're not _in_ your century."

"True," Watson agreed, more amicably than he'd been expecting with his bluntness.

Silence for a few moments. Then –

"Well?"

"Well what?"

The CMO heaved a longsuffering and highly exaggerated sigh. "Look, I know why Jim blew up in your quarters earlier. I wouldn't blame you if you said to scrap the whole thing and just went back to your own timeline, let us fend for ourselves."

The other shook his head firmly, jaw clenched. "I will not do that, and would not even if Holmes were not in danger. But neither do I think I can relive those three years. Are you aware –"

McCoy nodded. "Spock reminded us all. We'd calculated the risks carefully, but didn't take into account any emotional upheaval to the two of you over this. I should apologize for my superiors, but…"

"You are, of a sort, soldiers following orders. It was not your choice, and even if it were you would still make the same one," Watson finished.

He nodded. "Orders are orders – you know that as well as I do, with your military background."

"I do. Which is why I was not truly angry with your Captain; he is, after all, only performing his duty."

"And don't think he's not sympathetic to you, either, Doctor – never that," McCoy said quietly. "The last time we used the Portal down there…well, I'll not tell another man's private stories, but trust me that he knows something of what you're feeling. He won't force you to do anything."

"I know," Watson replied softly. "But none of us may have a choice, now."


	30. Chapter Thirty

**_Chapter Thirty_ **

_U.S.S. Dracone, engaging U.S.S. Enterprise over Aeternus_   
_Stardate 3957.1_

"You no doubt took advantage of the _Enterprise_ 's extensive research banks to discover just how vast the galaxy is, and how far from Earth we are at the moment," Moriarty inquired conversationally as they moved down an apparently deserted corridor. The detective had not failed to note the phaser within reach on his old enemy's belt, however, and wisely kept his hands in sight. "Also, the workings and hierarchy of this entire starship business?"

"I did not," Holmes admitted, though he was finding it increasingly hard to focus on the conversation, much less attempt to make some effort of escape. "The risk of contaminating our own time –"

"Ah, but if you do not return to your own time," came the sly rejoinder.

"Professor, I grow weary of this game. What, exactly, are you offering me?"

Ah, that room was the Auxiliary Control which had been their original goal…and there, a sign for the Engineering section at the corridor junction. He had learned enough from Montgomery Scott in two hours to know that destroying or at least damaging what these men called 'dilithium crystals' would permanently disable the ship's main power source until extensive repairs could be made. If only he could get the chance…

"Quite simply, Holmes, I am offering you more power than you have ever dreamed of. Physically, and mentally." Cold eyes bored into his, almost hypnotizing in their intensity. "I have no intention of attempting to persuade the _Enterprise_ officers to follow me rather than Captain Kirk; even I am not so arrogant as to believe I could divide that particular crew. Therefore as Captain upon my replacing him, I shall require an intellectual equal as a First Officer."

Startled into a bark of helpless laughter, Holmes winced as the motion jarred his aching head. With difficulty as his vision darkened for a moment, he brought his mirth under control. "You cannot possibly be serious, Professor."

"I assure you that I am." The man gestured throughout the nearly-empty corridor in a grand, theatrical motion meant to impress or intimidate, he was unsure at this point which. "Knowledge of this century's technology is not as imperative to one of my officers as their intellectual prowess and loyalty; you need have no fear of being 'behind the times', quite literally, for long, if you accept. We are two sides of an equation, Holmes, and to balance the equation both factors must be present."

"Possibly, in essence, you are correct, Professor," Holmes replied quietly. "But then you must also realize that balanced equational factors cancel each other out."

"If they must be reduced to that, yes." The domed forehead dipped in acquiescence. "But must it really come to such a drastic measure?"

Holmes's fists clenched at his sides as a warning stab of pain shot through the base of his skull. When he spoke, it was through clenched teeth as he threw all his formidable willpower into the mental conflict. "I resisted you once, Professor. I am perfectly willing to do so again."

"We shall see," Moriarty returned, apparently unflappable. The lift doors opened, and he gestured for the detective to precede him. "Sickbay," he spoke once the lift had closed again.

Holmes stiffened.

"My dear sir, I assure you I have no intention of drugging you into compliance with me; not only would it be a waste of time and energy and accomplish nothing, it is also considerably more challenging to force you to do my bidding by use of my mental powers," the man said bluntly. "However, you must have at least minimal treatment for that head injury or you will shortly have severe bleeding on the brain. Even I would not willingly see that fate befall a noble mind."

Holmes accepted the diagnosis and the compliment without question, for he had known all was not right. Besides, the Professor had no reason to lie to him. "Then send me back to the _Enterprise_ and let Watson and Dr. McCoy care for it."

Moriarty chuckled silently, as the lift slowed to a halt. "My dear Holmes, you do not truly expect me to do that."

Holmes shrugged, playing off the rather transparent bluff and blaming its simplicity on his increasingly painful state of dizziness. "It never does harm to ask."

"No. However, I should like to have the Doctor as a factor in the rest of our discussion, so I shall have him beamed over here to oversee your treatment. Familiar face in time of trouble, and all that?"

"No!" The exclamation fell before the detective's dulled senses could prevent it, and he knew instantly the blunder he had made.

A yellowed smirk creased the craggy features of his nemesis. "Oh _yes_ , Mr. Holmes."

Dismayed, he was prodded quite forcefully into the sterile ward despite the token resistance he put up for appearance's sake. Moriarty indicated a nearby bio-bed with the phaser he held, and touched the communications unit with his free hand. "Levarac, contact the _Enterprise_. Inform them that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is in need of immediate medical attention, and that Dr. Watson should prepare himself for transport from the Main Bridge. He is to come unarmed, of course."

_"Aye, Captain."_

Before Holmes's protests could even be formulated due to slowing reflexes, the communications squawked frantically. _"Security to Captain!"_

Raising a curious eyebrow, the mathematician answered the summons.

 _"Sir, the two prisoners went berserk down here!"_ a young, semi-panicked (and obviously frightened out of his dull wits) voice exclaimed. _"The Vulcan attacked Captain Kirk – I think he's dead, sir, there's no pulse or respiration at all!"_

Holmes's eyes widened. Surely not…no, it was unthinkable. He had seen the way the two men watched, and watched out for, each other; Mr. Spock would no more harm the Captain than he could raise a hand to Watson. It was unthinkable, and therefore impossible. What, then? He was perfectly willing to attempt anything the Captain had planned, if only he had a cue to follow!

Moriarty had not yet finished swearing at his subordinate, but when the detective attempted a stealthy move toward a piece of enticingly sharp medical equipment he was brought up short with the business end of the hand weapon his nemesis held. He had no desire to see what a setting _not_ designed to stun could do to his body, and so sat silently trying to keep the world from reeling while the renegade from the late nineteenth century raged into the comm-unit.

"Get the body up here on complete life support!" Moriarty finally demanded. "And place the Vulcan in stasis restraints!"

 _"Aye, Captain!"_ Obviously eager to cover his error, the young voice snapped out the words sharper than a needle-point.

"Levarac," the Professor finally barked into the communications unit, face suffused with anger. "Get _both_ those physicians over here. With or _without_ their consent. And let them know that if they arrive armed or attempt resistance upon arrival, their patients will no longer require their services."

The man whirled to fix upon Holmes's slightly-swaying form, face contorted with rage at his plans gone awry. "Kirk will regret this, Holmes," he snarled, leaning down toward the hazy eyes of the detective, who obviously was now struggling to remain entirely in focus. "And you had better decide in the next ten minutes upon whose side you intend to come down."

Holmes blinked wearily, drew himself up to his full height as best he could while sitting. "Three and a half centuries…and my answer still has not changed, Professor," he replied with the same perfect tranquility as he had those years before.

"We shall see if your friend the Doctor can change your mind this time around," the man answered venomously, and before calling a security detail used enough mental energy to send Holmes curling upon his side upon the bio-bed, gasping for breath that was only made of ice-shards. "Do not presume to think you can deceive or defy me, Holmes," he hissed over the man's limp head. "I assure you it is as unwise in this century as it was in our own."

* * *

_U.S.S. Enterprise, engaging U.S.S. Dracone over Aeternus_

_"Doctor McCoy to the Bridge,"_ Uhura's voice came clearly through the speaker just as full communications was restored. _"Urgent transmission from the_ Dracone _, sir."_

"On my way," the physician responded, gathering up his English counterpart and nodding a farewell to Scott, who apparently had either forgotten about or else entirely disregarded his quarantine (more likely the latter), for he was moving between Engineering and Auxiliary Control, burring irritated orders to all and sundry.

The turbo-lift ride was made in uneasy silence, both men aware of the malfunction earlier, but the trip was smooth and quietly uneventful. Just before they reached the Bridge, McCoy glanced over at his silent companion in time to see a spasm of pain cross his face.

"You all right?" he asked as the doors opened.

"Yes…a slight headache, of a sudden," the Englishman replied, mystified. "It has passed now."

"Summons from the _Dracone_ , sir," Sulu added his voice to Uhura's calm one, rising from the command chair.

"Keep it," McCoy gestured the young man back, never having sat in the Captain's seat and hoping to God he never would have to. "What's the message?"

"On visual."

The screen flickered from stars and the looming vessel paralleling their orbit into the familiar Bridge of the other ship. A tall, dark young man in science blues with the hint of an accent the Englishman could not quite place was standing before the command chair. Moriarty, Holmes, and the others were nowhere to be seen, and a pang of cold fear began to crawl up his throat.

"Doctors McCoy and Watson, prepare to be beamed aboard the _Dracone_ at the Captain's order. This is a medical emergency," the man stated imperiously.

"What kind of emergency?" McCoy demanded, thoroughly incensed both at the presumption and the idea that something had happened to his superiors.

"Firstly, Captain Kirk is dead."

The breath shot out of the physician's lungs until a firm hand on his back reminded him to inhale. "How?" he asked, numbly uncomprehending.

"Your Vulcan officer killed him," the man replied tonelessly, obviously bored with the details. "Captain Morbus is placing Kirk on life support, but he believes it to be too late."

Watson could feel the tension and shocked grief immediately disappear from the CMO and be replaced with exasperated curiosity; obviously the physician did not believe that Kirk was truly dead. Though how that could be accomplished even in this century, he had no idea.

"I will beam over at once. But you said 'firstly'?" McCoy asked suspiciously.

The young man waved an impatient hand. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes apparently has sustained a fractured skull prior to coming aboard and will shortly be in serious medical danger. Our ship is currently without a qualified surgeon; you are both required as per Captain Morbus's orders. You will come unarmed, or forfeit the lives of your patients. Transport in thirty seconds. _Dracone_ out."

This time it was McCoy who moved to support a shaky physician, as every vestige of color drained slowly from the Englishman's face. Watson remained staring at the blanked screen, motionless in shock, until McCoy shook him gently.

"Hey," the older man said quietly. "Snap out of it; we're needed."

"Needed…for what?" the other asked bleakly, raising haunted eyes to the CMO's face. "You heard…and there is no possible way to heal a skull fracture without brain damage. Rarely even then."

"Good Lord, man, what century are you liv– oh, wait." A sheepish grin flooded McCoy's face as understanding illuminated the issue with brilliant clarity. "Watson." He kept his hands on the quivering shoulders as he bent closer, knowing this was no time for levity. "Look, you're in the twenty-third century now, Doctor. I've _done_ brain surgery before, and we _can_ heal skull fractures just as easily as anything else."

A sudden light sprang into the widened eyes McCoy held with his own, and he nodded emphatically in reaffirmation. "He'll be fine, I swear," he promised, rashly enough but with tolerable confidence; Moriarty could not afford to lose the man, and so he would certainly not try to prevent the surgery. "Trust me?"

He watched the Englishman take and release a long, shuddering breath, and then found his hand being grasped in the old-fashioned way of reaching an agreement. Before he could smile at the quaintly telling gesture or give any final orders to the Bridge crew, the transporter took them.


	31. Chapter Thirty-One

**_Chapter Thirty-One_ **

_U.S.S. Dracone, engaging U.S.S. Enterprise over Aeternus_   
_Stardate 3957.1_

The First Officer of the _Enterprise_ , had he been human, might have been amused at the cringing, obviously terrified young Ensign who was currently approaching him with a pair of stasis cuffs. However, he was both Vulcan and a Starfleet officer, and as such had room for only one mild emotion in his mind; the need to succeed. Failure was unacceptable, and therefore could not be tolerated.

He was not fool enough to attempt to overpower the Ensign as the man entered the small cell, due to the three Security men outside armed with phasers on he-knew-not-what setting. Instead, he made no resistance, calmly accepting the restraints, and concentrated solely on projecting an aura of docility to the petrified young man.

In consequence, when he finally spoke, instead of bolting and running as he would suspect, the young man only jumped five-point three inches off the ground.

"I would speak with your Captain," he declared regally, face expressionless.

"Um…" Corban gulped, cast a look back at the indifferent red-shirted guards outside.

"Ensign." The Vulcan turned a disapproving eye upon the young man but did not dare reach out to sense more than the unease he already could. "I am fully aware of your commander's plans. If he is to successfully take command of the _Enterprise_ , he will be in need of security clearance as I personally locked down all vital areas of the ship before departing. No matter what technology he possesses, he will be unable to break my voice override without my personal assistance."

Gaping at this blatant betrayal of all he'd been taught about the _Enterprise_ officers since he was a small child "playing Starfleet" in his backyard, the young man only stared open-mouthed.

" _Now_ , Ensign. Or would you prefer that your failure to properly guard my late Captain and myself not be tempered in Morbus's eyes by this unexpected news of cooperation?"

That hit home, he was pleased to see, as Corban flushed and bobbed his head nervously before backing out of the cell and activating the force-field once more.

With an almost human sigh, Spock settled down on the bunk as best he could with his arms pinned behind him, and began to count the seconds that remained until it would be too late for McCoy to bring his Captain back.

The Doctors McCoy and Watson were welcomed by a quad of armed guards.

"Charming," Watson muttered under his breath, blinking away the residual dizziness and stepping off the transporter pad after McCoy.

"Slowly, Doc," one of the red-shirts warned unnecessarily as the CMO headed for the door without another glance. "No sudden moves, and you're coming with us straight to Sickbay. Captain's orders."

" _Shove_ your orders," the physician snarled, causing his surprised companion to stifle a rather uncouth laugh under cover of a cough. "Get moving, or get out of the _way,_ then. I've got a patient to see to."

The guard demonstrated his intelligence by scuttling out the door immediately. McCoy nodded with a short _humph_ and strode after, the Englishman following in his wake, both wary of the phasers pointed at their backs.

Watson noticed as they moved through the ship that the other physician was paying close attention to the signs on various doors and the layout of the ship, and realized the importance of knowing different departments' locations if they had any hope of overpowering the ship once their medical mission was completed. He began to do the same, noting that the layout seemed very similar to that of the _Enterprise_ , what little he had seen of it. Those thoughts were secondary, however, to the ones his instincts were screaming at him – the malevolence, the pure intent to do harm, was so strong aboard this ship it seemed capable of causing physical illness if he were to think over-long on the feeling. He was quite relieved when they reached the Sickbay.

McCoy strode through the doors, immediately at home, and spared the sinister figure hovering near the communications unit a glance of utter loathing before moving toward the still figure of the Captain. Peripherally the CMO saw the Englishman immediately place himself between the limp figure on the other bed and the Professor, and mentally nodded in approval. The man had guts, he'd give him that.

From the looks of him, so did Jim. He shivered, knowing what the Vulcan was capable of, and also knowing the risk involved in what his superiors had just done. Another half-hour, and there would be no returning from wherever the oblivion was Spock had sent his Captain. The problem was, he had no idea if he were supposed to tell Moriarty that Kirk was dead, or that he wasn't and revive him. Blast the pointy-eared computer anyhow!

For now, he decided to leave Kirk; the man had another half-hour, and perhaps he could get Moriarty to quit the room for some reason…

Just in time, his attention shot back to the other bed. " _Don't_ touch him," Watson was saying, in a tone of soft menace that he'd not heard before from the apparently mild-mannered Englishman.

Moriarty's head swiveled in amusement, a smile twitching at the sides of his thin lips. "Doctor, I have done nothing."

"You are lying and we both know it," Watson snapped, one hand atop the still head lying on the thin pillow. McCoy could see Holmes was breathing steadily enough, though how aware he was of his surroundings was anyone's guess. "I do not know exactly what you have done, but you _have_ done something to him."

"Let me see him," McCoy interrupted, pushing brusquely past the leering, gold-shirted figure and leaning over Holmes. For a moment only the high-pitched whine of a medical scanner broke the angry silence. Then the physician glanced at his Victorian counterpart, and regarded their enemy with newfound wariness.

"Is he…" Watson paused, glanced at the readings he could not understand over the man's head.

"He's alive, and he'll be fine after I operate to knit that fracture and relieve the pressure," McCoy replied calmly enough. "But there's minor trauma in the hypothalamus. Indications of an outside neural stimulus…as if he’s been assaulted by psionic energy."

His eyebrows clenched in a frown; something smelled rotten, and terribly familiar, about this whole mess. But the rest of the readings he kept to himself; no sense in letting on that he knew Holmes was fully conscious but pretending to be out of it.

"With what?"

"A telepathic attack, in other words, Doctor," Moriarty explained without a trace of the expected condescension. "Your accuracy in diagnosis does you credit, Doctor McCoy. Your reputation is not exaggerated."

Horrified, the physician stared at his opponent, instinctively keeping himself between the bed and the smiling professor. "Why, you…he's not even from this century! The shock alone could kill him!"

"I assure you he is relatively unharmed. For now."

Feeling Watson tense, McCoy instinctively put out a hand to prevent the other physician from moving closer. "Don't," he ordered, voice tight with tension. "If he's what I think he is, he could kill you without ever touching you."

"Very _good_ , my dear sir," the Professor applauded mockingly. "And now, Doctor McCoy. Leave Mr. Holmes for the moment. I am aware of many medical techniques that can make a man appear to be dead; nor am I fool enough to think that your Captain is above taking the risk of not returning to consciousness in order to save his ship."

Dismayed, McCoy's shoulders slumped barely perceptibly.

Moriarty smiled kindly. "A noble gesture, and one I respect – but an entirely futile one. Just before your arrival, gentlemen, I received a message from my brig security, informing me that your First Officer wishes to offer his assistance in overriding security clearances on the _Enterprise_." The smile widened knowingly. "It was a well-calculated distraction, I will admit; but an entirely useless one. Even if I did need either of your superiors for my plans – which I do not – I have done my research well. Captain James T. Kirk and Mr. Spock would never, under any circumstances, betray their ship or each other, and I well know it. One need not be a telepath to know genuine loyalty when one sees it."

"The Captain has been under severe strain –"

"No, no, Doctor McCoy," the Professor answered, chuckling. "It simply will not do. Bring the Captain back. Now."

Chin jutting in defiance, the shorter man glared up at the usurper. "And if I don't?"

"I can sense your admittedly well-founded fear of mental contact, Doctor," Moriarty stated pleasantly, as if discussing something as completely innocuous as the ship's stores. "Would you care for a demonstration of what I could do to you?"

If he _was_ going to bring Jim back, it would have to be in the next twenty minutes anyway. Besides… He clenched his teeth to repress a shudder. "That won't be necessary." Flicking a reassuring glance at his somewhat confused companion, he indicated for the man to watch Holmes's life-sign readings. "Call me if there's a change, Watson."

"Excellent," Moriarty purred. "And now, gentlemen, I will leave you for the moment in the hands of my capable Security men."

"You should know we're neither one likely to try anything with two men _dying_ up here, or you haven't done your research as well as you think you have!" McCoy snapped, tossing a handful of broken machinery aside before finally locating a neural stimulator in the nearby chaos of a broken-open medical cabinet.

His only response was a tolerant smile. "You will, I am sure, understand that I must take the precaution despite your assurance. And now, gentlemen, I will return shortly. I have a somewhat personal matter to discuss with your charmingly devious First Officer."


	32. Chapter Thirty-Two

**_Chapter Thirty-Two_ **

_U.S.S. Dracone, engaging U.S.S. Enterprise over Aeternus_   
_Stardate 3957.1_

Moriarty gave neither of us chance to answer him, only wheeled about and left the room in what I could tell was slightly amused and therefore sadistic irritation. Mr. Spock was in more danger than he realized. McCoy, on the other hand, evidently did realize, for he turned another shade of puce and rubbed a hand over his eyes. I found myself wondering when the last time was that the physician had slept properly, as he looked utterly exhausted; though possibly much of that was due to the incredible mental strain we all were under.

Casting a wary look at the two men standing guard near the door, McCoy turned back to the motionless figure of Captain Kirk. I in turn leaned down over the still form of my friend, noting his ghastly pale face and slow pulse in my admittedly archaic methods of diagnosis. Were we in our own century, I would hold little hope of a full recovery – but these men had proven to be trustworthy, and trust them I would. In the meantime, I could only wait. And plan.

"Watson, bring me that scanner, I forgot it on Holmes's bed," McCoy snapped, continuing to run what he had called a 'neural stimulator' over the Captain's now sporadically-twitching form.

I glanced at the nearer of the guards, who was yawning, and then bent to pick up the item. Oddly enough, McCoy had not shown a tendency to 'forget' anything…he must truly be disturbed in mind.

But when Holmes's eyes slitted open just for an instant, winking reassuringly at me, I knew the physician had no more forgotten anything than I had. I breathed a sigh of intense relief as my friend smiled thinly and then closed his eyes again.

"Here you are." I proffered the scanner, and the man snatched it brusquely.

"Hold this stimulator over his head and neck. Or don't you remember how?" The annoyance in his voice was completely at odds with the frantic message he was sending with those oddly intense blue eyes, and I slowly shook my head.

"Perhaps…you had better show me again?"

Palpable relief, and a small grin. "Like this…" His hands closed over mine as we bent over the Captain – I could see the color returning to the pale face, and he was twitching more rapidly now; fascinating medical study this would make, if I had the time.

"You still have that hypo I gave you?" McCoy murmured close to my ear as we worked.

I nodded, barely, though the guards at the door seemed completely disinterested. The lack of emotion they showed in itself was odd…perhaps this mental power Moriarty had hinted at dissolved any inclinations the men had to move or think for themselves?

McCoy gave an exclamation of satisfaction; the Captain's eyelids had begun to flutter. "Are you any good at all with self-defensive or martial arts?" he asked in the same half-muttered undertone.

I permitted myself a slightly smug smirk, while shooting a last glance at the two red-shirted figures "Shall I leave you the smaller of the two?"

My companion nearly guffawed but bent his head over his friend's to hide the motion. "C'mon, Jim." A gentle prod, and the Captain moved, wincing but not opening his eyes. Scowling, McCoy shook his superior and snapped out a quick "Captain Kirk, wake up, _this minute_!"

The reaction to the title was astounding, as the man's eyes flew open and he jerked, raising a trembling hand to rub at his head. He moaned softly as his fingers twitched; motor control obviously was not yet back to normal. From the corner of my eye I saw one of the guards immediately move toward us. McCoy flicked a quick glance at the man and then back to me, obviously trying to tell me something.

"'M sorry, Jim," he then muttered under his breath, and before I could ask what he was doing the physician had depressed a hypospray into the half-conscious man's neck.

I was immediately horrified to see that the Captain began coughing, wheezing in great heavy gasps that even to my 'archaic' eye bespoke a reaction, mild at least, to whatever the drug had been. McCoy loosed an impressive string of invectives, pouncing on the nearby scanner and shouting at the entire room in general.

"You there!" he bellowed at the surprised guard who had been moving toward us. "Help me hold him, he's convulsing!"

I blinked, for Kirk was doing nothing of the kind…

Then suddenly I understood, and so moved slowly backward as the red-shirted figure pushed past me, petrified that if the Captain died the guard's own life might be forfeit at Moriarty's hands. The other sentry had edged closer to the bed, uneasily watching the drama unfold, and as the taller one bent to help McCoy restrain Kirk I slipped my hand into my pocket.

Ten seconds later, Holmes was weakly applauding the dual thump that shook the deck plating as both guards collapsed in perfect tandem. I stepped quickly over the fallen man, who was breathing laboriously under the influence of whatever the drug had been. Relief made my legs shaky at best, and I more collapsed than sat on the edge of the bed, taking my first truly good look at my friend; I had not seen him since before the accident in the lift.

"Holmes," My voice quivered slightly and I hastily schooled my expression. "You must lie still, old fellow."

"I am…aware of that," he whispered with a tired smile.

"Watson, get - ow! Bones, for heaven's sake! - get that phaser and get after Moriarty!" Kirk coughed out from around a large wet gulp of strangled air.

"Jim, give the man a minute!" McCoy snapped, injecting the Captain with another spray.

Kirk glared venomously, straining to catch his breath, but obviously had realized the necessity of the mild reaction inducement judging from his lack of recrimination toward his friend. However, he was quite right; I could do nothing here, and if Moriarty was as dangerous as they claimed…

The Enterprise’s First Officer was in grave danger.

Suddenly the fury and desperation evident in Kirk's eyes as he staggered to his feet, stiffly tried to take a step, and then fell promptly into McCoy's patient arms, transformed into what it truly was, not what it appeared to be. In that trance-like state he had heard part at least of the conversation, and he was scared petrified for his friend.

"Bones…" The man moaned, gallantly tried again to stand on trembling legs. "Get me on my _feet_ , and on the double."

"Jim, you know as well as I do it takes a little while for the effects of that blasted nerve pinch to wear off! If I gave you a stimulant in this state, it could stop your heart."

"Bones, _please_."

After so many hours of seeing such a strong, military-like façade, to hear this man's pleading jolted me from my still-shocked daze. After patting Holmes's shoulder gently I snatched up the closest guard's weapon, checked the setting to make certain it was still on a stun.

"Go after him, Watson," I then heard a quiet voice behind me, and turned to see Holmes raising himself on one elbow, looking at me.

The indicator above his head emitted an angry beep, and McCoy whirled around with an armful of wheezing Captain. "Lie down!" he bellowed, loudly enough for my friend to wince and instantly obey.

"Watson," Holmes murmured, and I bent closer to hear the words.

"Yes, Holmes?"

"You must stop him," my friend whispered, his eyes darkening. "You have…no conception of what he can do…to a man's mind. He will destroy anyone who defies him, and their Mr. Spock is even more susceptible." At my hesitation, he gave me a gentle nudge with one weak hand. "Go _on_ , my dear fellow."

"I'll take care of him," I heard the other physician assure me calmly from where he stood, fiddling with his medical kit.

"Bones, give me something but get me _moving_!" Kirk was yowling now, rubbing his neck furiously and bent double to catch his breath.

McCoy shot me a longsuffering look, and then rammed another hypo into his superior's shoulder. Kirk yelped and glared at him; but I interrupted any resultant argument. "We've no time for this, both of you. How do I get to the brig from here?"

Jerking free of McCoy's restraining grip, the Captain waved off the man's protests with one well-practiced motion of dismissal. "Wait a second, I'm coming with you," Kirk grunted, rolling his shoulders and fumbling clumsily for the second phaser.

"Captain, that is not the most logical course of action," Holmes spoke up, his voice flooded with utter weariness.

I met McCoy's eyes as one of the indicators over Holmes's head slid down as he spoke, and was further worried when the inexplicable amusement at his statement faded. The physician began mixing another injection.

Kirk was only annoyed at the interruption. " _I'll_ decide what's logical and what isn't –"

"He's right, Jim," McCoy interjected. "Someone has to disable the weapons and engines, and Watson doesn't have the knowledge."

I equally matched the glare aimed at me, for my ignorance was not my fault and we both knew it. The fear and worry were fairly radiating off the man despite the fact that he concealed both well, and I understood how loath he was to relinquish his friend's safety to my hands. But there was no alternative, and we all could see that.

"Captain," I spoke quietly. "I assure you I will not allow anything to happen to your friend. Furthermore," I added when the man squirmed uncomfortably, opened his mouth as if to defend himself, "I am every bit as good a shot as you are. I am capable of pulling a trigger, but not of disabling a starship's shields. You must think of your ship." I hoped I had gotten the terminology correctly; all these new and unknown factors I could barely keep straight in my own mind, much less discuss them intelligently.

I met the golden glare with every bit of my own, but we both knew we had no time to argue the facts of the matter.

"Get _out_ , both of you," McCoy finally broke the six seconds of tense silence, his voice cracking like a whip over a surly cabhorse. "I've got surgery to perform and I don't want red-shirts coming in here while I'm doing it! Stun the whole ship if necessary. And fight it out in the corridor if you have to, but get outta my Sickbay."

Kirk finally blew out a long, measured breath, ran a hand over the hair that had flopped over his brow, and checked his own weapon. "We're going, Bones. Watson - kill the man if you must," he finally told me in a most serious tone. I was about to protest, but he raised a hand to stop me. "Doctor, over two years ago a man tried to take over my ship with the same mental powers this Moriarty evidently has. Spock told me to eliminate him at the time…" here the Captain's face darkened in grief and regret, "…but I waited almost too long. He can kill with a _thought_ , Doctor. Take no chances."

"I will not," I replied steadily. "Physician I may be, but a soldier as well when necessary."

"Good man." I received a most hearty slap on the back, and blinked in surprise. "I'll take care of the weapons and engines if I can. You and Spock put the Professor out of commission. Whichever of us finishes first can meet the other."

"Quit _talking_ about it and _do_ it!" McCoy snapped from behind me.

I turned, and stepped forward with a restraining hand held up. The man paused, hypospray poised above my friend's pale figure. "What? I told you I'd take care of him," he reminded with the gentleness that seems to be a requisite for any qualified and successful physician.

"He…he has an adverse reaction to narcotics, opiods," I hedged slightly, for I was unaware of how much of our personal lives was known and would never volunteer the information about my friend unless absolutely necessary. "Is –"

McCoy smiled in understanding. "All those kinds of medications were outlawed in the galaxy over a century ago, Watson. Anything I give him is non-habit-forming, I'll promise you that."

Relieved, I nodded. "Thank you."

Kirk was already out the doors, peering right and left. "Come on, Doctor," he ordered, and I found myself moving instinctively to obey.


	33. Chapter Thirty-Three

**_Chapter Thirty-Three_ **

_U.S.S. Dracone, engaging U.S.S. Enterprise over Aeternus_   
_Stardate 3957.1_

Without needing to touch the sinister figure standing in the doorway of the cell, Spock could immediately sense that the man's feelings were a chilling combination of amusement, anger, and pure hatred. A deadly amalgamation, in one so powerful as this particular human. The mind-numbing chill spreading through the cell did not go unnoticed by him, though there was little enough he could do against the cold. Rapid observation of the plummeting temperature only served to confirm his suspicions of the man, though the knowledge that his suppositions had been correct was entirely unhelpful in his current state and to the current situation.

As the force-field was lowered, he permitted himself two and one-half seconds for human regret that he had permitted the stasis restraints; with them he had absolutely no physical defense. However, if what he suspected were true in its entirety, then physical resistance would have no effect upon the outcome anyway.

None of this, however, was betrayed upon the calm countenance he turned toward the figure who entered, mockingly dressed in a Starfleet captain's uniform and holding none of the morals such a position demanded.

"Professor Moriarty," he intoned in greeting, purposely not deigning to desecrate the title of _Captain_ by assignation nor honoring the man with a stand at attention.

Apparently not troubled in the least by the lack of respect, Moriarty smiled thinly and turned to speak to the guards outside. "Leave us," he said. "No, keep it down," he continued with a sly smile when Corban would have restored the force-field barrier. "It will do no good to our…guest. You may go; get back to Sickbay and check to see if the Captain has revived and that Holmes is still alive. Take Dr. Watson into custody. You may leave McCoy until he's finished with Holmes."

The sudden knowledge that the Englishman was, as he had suspected, badly injured, was enough to stiffen his spine to counter the malevolence radiating off the erstwhile Victorian criminal mastermind. Were the man any other renegade they had encountered, overpowering him would be as simple as distraction followed by superior strength; even with his hands useless, he was quite capable of rendering unconscious - or dead, for that matter - any human using leverage, elbows, and feet alone. But somehow, a well-trained alarm was screaming its warning clearly in his mind – such tactics would not only be ineffective here, but dangerous.

"Ensign Corban informs me that you are willing to betray your comrades and commission, Commander," Moriarty said, eyes raking over the impassive countenance before him.

"It is not logical to resist where resistance is futile," he answered with proper serenity.

"You will forgive me if I disbelieve your willingness to assist me."

"Vulcans are incapable of lying."

"But quite capable of not telling entire truths, eh?" A dry chuckle. "My dear Mr. Spock, have you not realized by now that I could, if I chose, force you to comply with me? Your attempt at ingratiating yourself into my confidences so that you may save your ship is commendable, and rather endearing for a supposedly unemotional being…but highly ineffectual."

Spock had never truly entertained the thought that the bluff would deceive the man; it would not have deceived _him_ , and therefore it was not logical that his intellectual equal would so be taken in by the effort. He was bound to make the attempt, however. The reassertion of fact, that he most definitely did _not_ possess the Kirk power of bluff, was not encouraging, but if he could succeed in somehow keeping this man here for another half-hour, that should surely be enough time for McCoy and the Captain to disable the weapons systems at the very least.

He was the only being aboard capable of withstanding Moriarty's influence and power for any length of time, and each second of that time was incalculably precious to Kirk and their mission. As the only suitable candidate for the type of mental battle about to ensue, he was well aware that he must give both his captain and Dr. McCoy enough time to accomplish their separate missions, to save the _Enterprise_ 's crew and the men from the past. The fact, that the probability of his surviving such a mental encounter with his mind intact was too miniscule even to contemplate, mattered little in the balance of what lay at stake now.

The only issue left to solve, then, was how best to provoke Moriarty into remaining alone with him for that amount of time.

* * *

Captain Kirk left me at the nearest turbolift, intending to take one of those awful Jefferies tubes down to Engineering in hopes of keeping the element of surprise upon his side, with one last curt instruction before the door closed, separating us. As the lights flitted past the small window within the lift, indicating the different levels of the ship, I endeavored to remain focused on the mission at hand rather than upon my friend, lying injured back in the _Dracone_ 's medical bay. How I wished we had never left Baker Street! I had only just received him back from what I had thought to be his grave; to lose him once more, and in such an incredibly horrific manner as was threatening us all now - I still could scarcely believe it was not all some fantastical dream - was unthinkable.

The lift stopped, and I stepped out of the contraption straight into the surprised arms of two red-garbed security guards. I thanked heaven for quick reflexes, born and honed of years in the army and in the company of London's most intrepid and careless observer, for it was solely instinct that fired the stuns in quick succession.

Kirk had shown me how to set the field of the weapon on wide stun, and that served me well in the next three minutes as I worked my way methodically through a small amount of crewmen before reaching the Security section of the ship. While it thoroughly disturbed my instincts to fire a weapon of any sort against a lady, I had been well-instructed upon how these women were considered as capable as the men in this world; and I knew as well as Holmes that sometimes the female of a species is indeed more dangerous than the male. Still, the ease with which I found myself methodically taking out every man or woman I passed was cause to unsettle my nerves, and by the time I reached the security area of the ship I will admit to being slightly discomfited by my own callousness.

Nevertheless, I paused outside the most secure corridor to do three things. One, to reset the phaser to narrow but maximum stun; I had no wish to catch Mr. Spock in its array when the time came to use it on the Professor but nor would I kill the man unless I must to protect this mission. Two, to carefully aim and sever the wire connecting the…Kirk had called it a _security camera_ , to the wall. Apparently that would prevent anything happening in the brig from being seen on the _Dracone_ Bridge or main security room.

Three, to catch my breath.

I promptly lost that hastily-regained composure the instant I stepped into the brig's corridor. It was not the icy chill of death that permeated and saturated the air, the walls, the flooring quivering and throbbing beneath my feet, the very oxygen which seemed to freeze before reaching my lungs. It was not the terrible aura of pure, agonizing fear that swirled about in a mist I could almost make myself believe was visible, not the volume of sheer terror that immediately assaulted my senses with a wave of absolute dread the like of which I have never felt before under any influence. It was none of these that forced me backward, quivering, to shrink against the wall, cowering from the abject terror that pressed me into the corner.

It was the screaming.

* * *

Three decks away, halfway down the last level of the narrow passageway, James Kirk gasped suddenly and clung tightly to the ladder of the companionway as a blast of icy air seemed to shoot out of nowhere, swirling about in an eddy of chilled razor-sharp particles to rake over his skin before whooshing on down the Jefferies tube. Shivering, he wondered what in the world could have gone wrong with Environmental Control on this blasted ship…and why he suddenly felt so sick to his stomach.

After a moment of breathing heavily, clutching the phaser in one hand and the rungs of the ladder in the other, he finally coughed slightly and continued down at a breakneck pace, a nagging sense of increasing urgency hastening him into a free-slide the last fifteen feet of the ladder.

When he reached Engineering ten minutes later and discovered half-a-dozen personnel in varying stages of unconsciousness on the floor, he suspected what had happened.

He didn't want to think about what that indicated was happening up in the brig.

* * *

For a horrible, hellish moment I could do absolutely nothing but shrink in the corner of the corridor, only my sense of British sensibilities and propriety preventing me from outright whimpering. The screaming - and it was not only one voice - had stopped now, but the choking silence seemed almost worse somehow, cold and thick as Death itself and yet not so final; worse even than that.

I was still thoroughly in the dark regarding some of the terminology these men had used to describe the power Moriarty had somehow gained, but I had seen the damage to Holmes and sensed the absolute horror from McCoy at the knowledge. In this universe, it seemed to be an almost unspeakable violation, what the Professor was capable of, and judging from the horror permeating this corridor I could well believe it. Somehow, some way, I had to stop the man – I had promised Kirk I would – and that meant being able somehow to escape the ice-cage of terror that had without my knowledge become a prison around my very soul.

The cell at the far end of the corridor held shadows spilling out from the light within, and that was where I headed once my head cleared enough to at least control the movement of my feet. Eight steps brought me to the door of the cell, and then I froze, not of my own volition. The hatred in this room – and the uncontrolled, primitive _rage_ – were enough to nearly loosen my grip on the weapon I held, so terrible was the throbbing of the intense emotions pounding within my head.

With difficulty I forced incredibly heavy eyes upward, looking into the room despite the instinctive desire to do no more than run while I might still have a chance of survival. My stomach lurched and twisted as I saw the figure of the man I'd come to rescue, crouched helplessly on the floor of the cell, arms fastened behind him with what appeared to be translucent manacles. It was obvious he had been struggling against them, breaking the skin around the thin wrists in his endeavors (only now, in the calm of retrospect, do I recall the detached surprise of learning that in addition to other physical differences the man's race did not possess red blood but rather a shocking shade of dark green). The Vulcan's head hung limply against his chest, eyes closed, respiration extremely shallow; obviously he was only half-conscious – but alive, I could see that. _Thank heaven above_.

I wasted no more time in watching, for Moriarty was already aware of my presence and was swiveling slowly about to greet me, his immense head oscillating as a cobra coiling to strike out at a fresh victim. Without hesitation, I raised the phaser and fired, my aim true.

And absolutely _nothing_ happened.


	34. Chapter Thirty-Four

**_Chapter Thirty-Four_ **

_U.S.S. Dracone, engaging U.S.S. Enterprise over Aeternus_   
_Stardate 3957.2_

With one well-placed shot, Kirk disabled the security cameras, though if the rest of the ship were in the same shape due to psionic fallout as the Engineering section the action probably wasn't necessary. He then took a great deal of vicious pleasure in destroying three of the dilithium crystals; the ship would be unable to travel at a higher speed than Warp One, but all systems including Sickbay would still have full power.

Only after he dropped all the ship's shields from the Auxiliary Control room controls, finding only a half-dozen unconscious men there as well, did he realize the full extent of the damage. He suspected that anyone under Moriarty's control had, when the man's power was snapped, been struck by the mental backlash and was now incapacitated. Still, he could take no chances on some random Bridge personnel coming to and deciding to fire on his ship.

These were the thoughts primary in his mind; duty above all else, after all. Plus, they helped him ignore the sickening feeling growing in the pit of his stomach that something was horribly wrong with Spock, and that he couldn't afford to go to the brig before the Bridge. Much as he wanted badly to yell himself hoarse into the intercom to check on McCoy and the brig situation, he had a duty to perform and neither McCoy nor Spock needed the distraction of his concern at the moment.

There were times when he absolutely hated being the Captain.

He spent a precious ten or twelve minutes reprogramming the Auxiliary Control console to respond to his voice command only so that no crewman could take over the _Dracone_ from below decks, and then left without another look, entering the turbolift at the end of the corridor with an unconscious snap into full military attention.

"Bridge."

* * *

_U.S.S. Enterprise, engaging U.S.S. Dracone over Aeternus_

Lieutenant-Commander Montgomery Scott was flat on his back under the Engineering console on the main Bridge when the communications officer who had replaced Uhura so that she could work with Scott suddenly yelped. "Mr. Scott, the interference we were getting from the _Dracone_ 's jamming field just disappeared!"

Scott jerked upward, banging his head on the underside of the console, and promptly apologized to an amused Uhura for the resulting words that were growled into the mess of wiring. Scooting out from under, Scott stood to his feet and moved toward the command chair.

"I dunno how it happened, but we're not goin’ to just sit here, laddie. Contact Starfleet immediately, find out how far away those two ships are they were supposed to be sending us."

"Aye, sir."

Sulu, working doggedly at his own console, suddenly blinked, double-checked the screen before him, and then swiveled round to the expectant Scott. "Sir, the _Dracone_ 's shield power just decreased to barely ten percent!"

"Phaser banks powering down, sir," came the nervous report from the Science console. "And the majority of the life signs aboard have been steadily decreasing."

"And…Mr. Scott! Their engines just shut down to minimal power to maintain necessary systems!"

A grin threatened to split Scott's head neatly into halves. "I dunno how they did it, but they did it!" he exclaimed, as cheering erupted around the tired Bridge crew.

* * *

_U.S.S. Dracone, engaging U.S.S. Enterprise over Aeternus_

Panic was, I am ashamed to admit, the first sensation that sent a tendril of warmth into the icy core that had become my mind and heart.

Desperation followed closely on its heels, and I pressed the phaser trigger once more. The beam of electric-blue light shone brilliantly as before, aimed straight and true at Moriarty's shoulder – but with no visible result, as if it were no more than a plain lantern shining harmlessly with a most distracting whine into the room.

"Dear me, Doctor. What a very gallant move. I had not expected you to care so for these new friends that you would leave Holmes to the other physician's care so easily," the man purred, moving toward me slowly, smoothly…almost hypnotically…

I shook my head to rid my mind of the icy fingers that threatened to wrap around it – I could almost see them, why was that? The room was empty, and yet somehow not; apparently normal, but fairly reeking of a horror just enacted.

"But I am perfectly able to deflect a phaser stun, Doctor, with my powers of concentration creating a shield that no mere mortal can break through." Tinged with complacency, the voice was calm enough…but I could feel an undercurrent of intensifying wariness of me. Why? "Give me the weapon."

"No," a gravelly voice, hoarse with pain, called from behind the man. "Doctor…kill him. Kill him now."

Somehow, suddenly, a burst of desperate warmth filtered through the choking miasma that threatened me, and I found my fingers moving to change the phaser setting to _Disrupt_ , which Kirk had warned would literally disintegrate anything it touched. I do not kill cheerfully, but the atmosphere of unspeakable atrocity that exuded from the man drove out any lingering misgivings I held.

But I was too late; my movements, slow and dulled with the shock of whatever was happening here, failed me as the Professor lunged like a pouncing tiger. One violent twist of my arm, and the phaser clattered out into the hall, sent spinning away in the ensuing struggle held in the doorway and then into the cell beyond. I saw with distant dismay that the weapon was now far enough from the cell that I could never reach it in time, sluggish as I was feeling.

One moment I was on my feet, facing the leering figure and craggy features of the man we had come so far to stop. The next, my head seemed to explode with a thousand darks and lights, colors and patterns that swirled into a blinding blizzard of pain, leaving me breathless and half-suffocating, collapsing to my knees in front of my captor.

"What…" I gasped, clutching my head with both hands and trying in vain to apply enough pressure to ease the ache enough that I could think.

"Terribly painful, isn't it, Doctor?" The voice filtered in agonizing calm through the opaque haze as I tried gamely to regain my feet and failed, again slumping back near the crumpled figure close behind me on the cold deck. "You see the power I have, the power which I offered to that fool you serve so blindly? He refused my offer, Doctor, and I have not the patience to convince him further."

A stab of ice penetrated my last attempt to block out or at least fight off the intrusion I did not even understand, but in vain – it cut straight to my heart and exposed my innermost fears for the world to see. Horrified, I could hear myself crying out without intending to; a helpless, frantic, vulnerable plea for someone to explain what was happening to me, and why.

Through a dim haze I felt the light brush of fingertips on the back of my coat. _Doctor Watson._

Had I been capable, I should have yelped at the surprise and shock of hearing a distinct voice, _not_ mine, within my mind. However, even the knowledge that I was being driven slowly mad was preferable to the physical pain that engulfed me at present, and as such I welcomed it.

I felt a tiny ripple of weary bemusement. _You are not mad, Doctor. Has Dr. McCoy told you of Vulcan telepathic abilities?_

Now I recognized the voice, and the thin calm it projected. Above me Moriarty was still caught up in his tirade; this bizarre mental communication seemed to be taking place at a much faster rate than normal speech. I tamped down on the hysterical laughter that rose when I wondered how the proper way was to answer a voice inside one's own head.

 _Do not attempt it, Doctor,_ came the sharp warning. _Your own modest abilities in this matter are completely untapped, and attempts to access or use them now would be highly dangerous to your mind. Listen only._

Mentally I almost-nodded.

_To intrude upon another's thoughts unasked is unforgivable, but you did cry out for help…I see you are grateful for the invasion, but we will speak of that later. Right now, this man must be stopped, and by that he must be killed; there is no alternative._

Briefly I wondered if understatement was another special Vulcan characteristic.

Mild amusement. _I am…damaged by Moriarty's attack, Doctor; but he is, as well. He was forced to break off all control over this ship when I refused him entrance to my mind, so that he could concentrate fully upon countering my…resistance. However, if we do not stop his efforts in the next three-point-two-five minutes, he will be a hundred times stronger than he was._

"So, Doctor." Moriarty was saying above me, leering pleasantly. I saw with some trepidation that somewhere in the last ten seconds (for that was all the time this strange internal converse had taken) he had gone out to retrieve the phaser from the hall, obviously aware that neither of his prisoners were in condition to move, much less resist him. "I do sincerely regret that our first truly interesting encounter should have to end so unpleasantly; I would have been more than willing to have you as a medical officer aboard my ship if your foolish friend had accepted my offer."

 _You are incapable of resisting him, Doctor,_ came the voice again, the pressure on my back increasing slightly. _You possess the ability to shut him out, but untrained you will never succeed and could damage yourself. With your permission, I could…place a temporary guard around your mind._

And that would be sufficient to allow me resistance?

_Only for a few moments. You must succeed in those thirty seconds; I will be unable to maintain the shield longer than that._

Suddenly I realized one very important thing that apparently we all had forgotten, including myself until this moment.

My service revolver was still in my coat pocket.


	35. Chapter Thirty-Five

**_Chapter Thirty-Five_ **

_U.S.S. Dracone, in stable orbit over Aeternus_   
_Stardate 3957.2_

McCoy had contemplated performing the necessary surgery on the sedated detective while he was basically confined to Sickbay, but decided against it as he had no competent nurse nearby in the event of emergencies. He did perform the preliminary procedures to release part of the pressure building on the Englishman's brain, but with the trauma present did not dare do more than that until he was back with familiar equipment and familiar surroundings.

He did, however, spare the time to haul the two unconscious guards to beds (nearly threw his back out doing it, too) and ensure that the drug they had been given would keep them out for another hour at least; he placed the bed restraints on the men but wouldn't feel safe until they were locked in the brig. When he dumped the first man on the bed with an expressive grunt, he was slightly alarmed to see the indicators above the man's head show far too low blood pressure – the drug should not have dropped it that much. Obviously there was another factor involved, something far less tangible.

He lost no time in hauling the other one to the next bed, thanking half a dozen deities under his breath that the man was no heavier, and ran the scanner over both of them.

Though stable, the life signs were extremely low, and there were clear indications of neural and brain trauma.

What in the world…

Shaking his head, he made sure the men were stable but could do no more for them until he knew what had caused the attack; besides, Holmes's life-signs were jumping about erratically, alarms beeping for his attention.

After seeing that the detective was in no immediate danger due to the heavy sedation to slow the brain's functions, he puttered aimlessly about the ward, wishing Jim would hurry up with whatever-the-heck was he was doing.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when the communications whistled for ship-wide attention.  
 _  
"Attention all hands of the_ Dracone _. This is Captain James T. Kirk of the Federation starship_ Enterprise _. Your shields and weapons have been disabled, your Bridge crew rendered unconscious, and your ship is now under my command. Commander Morbus is no longer in command of this vessel nor of any crewman's mind. Any available personnel who are undamaged from recent events please respond; cooperation is your only option."  
_  
Kirk told McCoy later that he believed the physician's whooping could be heard on Aeternus' surface.

* * *

I was attempting to gather my wits, a terrible sensation – not being fully in control of one's own mind – when the comm-unit went off, ringing with the Captain's glow of triumph.

The officer kneeling behind me, apparently absorbing or blocking the influence Moriarty was hurling at me, slumped against me for a moment at the sound of the familiar voice; I felt his fingers clench in the back of my coat, either in relief or for support. His concentration wavered enough to send a stab of pain back through my throbbing head, but then I could sense that he was gathering all his waning strength to hold the shield in place.

Moriarty's attack ceased momentarily as Kirk's voice detailed quite calmly the fact that the crew was mostly or completely unconscious and that the _Dracone_ was no longer under the Professor's control. With a shout of uncontrolled fury, he turned instinctively toward the droning communications unit on the wall as if it solely were responsible for his defeat.

 _Now, Doctor._ The command was very faint in my mind, but unmistakably desperate.

Somehow my hands were released from their previous paralysis, the ice melting on the instant at the command, and before the Professor could turn I was drawing myself up on my knees, my hand already in my coat pocket closing upon my faithful, if outdated, weapon.

But the emotional tension I must have been displaying to anyone versed in this strange ability must have re-attracted the deadly attention of our opponent, for a sudden surge of utter hatred swept ahead of the man, heralding his whirl back toward me, a hand raised as if to physically claw my mind apart.

I did not even wait to pull the weapon from my pocket, but fired through the layer of cloth; a dangerous action, but one I had used more than once in the company of a man in a most dangerous occupation.

His concentration broken by the sickening impact of lead on bone just below the knee, Professor Moriarty shouted in agony and folded to the deck, hands spread to break the force of impact. Mr. Spock had been correct, for during our conversation he had conveyed the impression that the only way past however Moriarty was shielding himself was to take him completely by surprise. The icy wall that had been beating down upon me melted into slush; the phaser skittered across the floor toward us. His concentration had been completely broken by the unexpected agony of a shattered tibia and fibula.

I could not find it in myself to pity him.

 _He has another in his belt, Doctor!_ came the faint warning.

Phaser in hand now (for it was more reliable than my revolver), I yet hesitated, for it was still set on Disrupt. I could kill him, and probably in this military would be decorated for the act. He would cheerfully have murdered Holmes all over again, as well as harming myself and Mr. Spock…and he was too dangerous to be allowed to live.

But Moriarty did not belong in this timeline, and we were not the only ones who had been harmed by his actions. If there _was_ a chance that the entire timeline could be restored so that his entrance never occurred in the first place and caused all the pain and death he had here, then it was my and our duty to see that chance taken.

_Doctor!_

I rammed the setting over to Heavy Stun and fired before the Professor could raise his head, holding the brilliant beam true to target.

And as I released the trigger, Moriarty collapsed.

My sigh of relief was muffled by the man who had so incredibly protected my mind and sanity doing the same behind me.

* * *

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in stable orbit over Aeternus_

"Mr. Scott, we are being hailed," Uhura reported, having resumed her station now that they knew there was no enormous rush to get systems back fully functional.

Scott's face was wreathed in smiles. "That'll be the Captain, I'll wager," said he happily. "On screen."

"Let me clear some of this residual interference, sir…" The woman's hands flew nimbly over the console as the voice transmission crackled through the system.

"Kirk to _Enterprise_ , come in. _Enterprise_ , do you read me? What did he do to this board anyway…ah." The words briefly preceded the flickering of the screen, and the Bridge crew hastily wiped the grins from their faces at the muttering going on from the other end of the channel.

" _Enterprise_ here, sir," Scott responded, seating himself in the command chair as the static cleared and the visual came into focus. "Captain, are ye all right?"

"I'm fine, Scotty, fine." They saw a weary smile, though the movement never reached the Captain's eyes. "And McCoy's all right, too…but the others, I don't know…Scotty, I need teams over here immediately; the whole ship's crew is unconscious from something; psychic trauma, I think."

Glancing back, the Scotsman saw that the Lieutenant was already making the necessary calls to the various departments.

Suddenly Kirk moved back to the command chair as on screen they faintly heard the squawking of ship's communications. After a moment of speaking the Captain looked up again, not bothering to hide his weariness. "McCoy says Mr. Holmes can't be transported back without endangering his condition," he reported tiredly. "Have Nurse Chapel and any spare medical staff beamed over with full supplies for brain surgery; he doesn't trust all the labels in the Sickbay."

"Right away, Captain."

Kirk nodded, punching buttons on the navigational console. "Word from the two vessels Starfleet was supposed to be sending?"

"Nothing as yet, sir, but our communications only just cleared completely."

"Good. Contact the planet, tell them to keep up their guard until the other ships arrive. And Scotty," he added, shoving the chair back up to the console and stepping over an unconscious yeoman with only a minimal glance, "make sure there's enough Security and Medical on those boarding parties. This is no picnic over here."

"Aye, sir." Scott opened his mouth, about to ask about the others, but one look at the unusually controlled, rigidly frozen expression on his superior's face was enough to cause him to fall silent in recognition.

Kirk nodded, smiling briefly. “Hurry, Scotty. Kirk out."

The screen went blank, and the Chief Engineer turned slowly to glance at the rest of the crew.

"But what about…" Sulu trailed off as the other shook his head.

"I dunno, laddie. But one thing I know, we need to get our men over there and fast. Lieutenant, put me on ship-wide."


	36. Chapter Thirty-Six

**_Chapter Thirty-Six_ **

_U.S.S. Dracone, in stable orbit over Aeternus_   
_Stardate 3957.2_

The monitor chirped briefly above Holmes's head as he came to for a moment, groggy but aware of one thing at least.

"Calm down, you," McCoy drawled with forced cheerfulness, preparing another sedative. "Everything's under control and you're not getting up, so don't even ask."

"Where…ugh. Watson? Where is he?" the Englishman mumbled, rubbing a limp hand over eyes that refused to stay open.

 _How much I wish I knew_. "Helping Mr. Spock and the Captain. You've got to stay under until I can take care of that fracture, Holmes, so lie back now."

"Is he…"

Well, at least one thing he did better than that supercilious Vulcan was to lie through his teeth. "He's fine. Now go back to sleep."

The physician did not relish the idea of deceiving the man, but he couldn't let Holmes stress his mind either, worrying over something he knew nothing about and couldn't fix even if he knew. Just as well, he reflected with gratitude later that night, that the detective had slipped under again before the communications unit chirped frantically.

His first thought was pride that his Victorian counterpart had kept his head enough to remember which button was the emergency one; ship-wide alert.

His second was _Jim is going to kill somebody…_.

* * *

"Computer, release all systems control to Bridge stations. Voice authorization Kirk, James T., Captain, U.S.S. _Enterprise_. Uhura, send a preliminary report to Starfleet –"

Two Engineers and six Security men had just stepped onto the _Dracone_ 's Bridge when the ship's communications system whistled its interruption. Expecting McCoy, he was unpleasantly surprised when the voice that issued was an uncertain, British-accented baritone.

 _"Sickbay…McCoy, can you…can you hear me?"  
_  
Something was wrong, he knew it immediately, and not just from the slightly stumbling words.

McCoy's voice instantly, before he could even recover from the nausea that gripped him. _"Watson, where are you?"  
_  
 _"I'm…in the brig, still."_

The lift doors slid open.

"Scotty, thank God!" Kirk sprang at the surprised Scott as the older man entered the Bridge. "Take command." He tossed the Chief Engineer a pleading look and then bolted for the turbolift without waiting for an answer.

The comm-unit was still going on emergency ship-wide. _"I'm coming, just stay there,"_ McCoy was snapping, that familiar edge in his voice that signified more worry than anger. _"What happened? Is Spock all right?"_

"Bones, what –"

 _"Just a minute, Jim – the man's not even coherent!"_ the physician snapped through the unit as he attempted to cut in on the conversation.

Kirk bit his lip and fell silent. The lift seemed to be crawling rather than passing decks at a rapid speed; had it been damaged possibly?

The CMO's voice lowered into a more gentle tone. _"Watson, answer me. What about Moriarty?"_

_"He…I shot him, McCoy."_   
_  
"Good. Filthy –"_

"Is he dead, Doctor?" Kirk interrupted sharply.

 _"No,"_ the Englishman answered faintly. _"I don't think so."_

"What do you mean, you don't _think_ so?"

 _"Jim, that's enough!"_ McCoy's bellow rattled the directional handle. _"You'll get there soon enough. I've already told Scotty to send Chapel and two gurneys down there as soon as they can get 'em here."_

Fists clenched, Kirk nodded mechanically, forgetting the physician could not see the motion. "Doctor Watson, is Spock…is he alive?"

Silence. Then, _"I…can't tell, Captain."_ The man's voice was fainter, sounding as if he were about to either be ill or pass out. _"I am sorry."_

* * *

McCoy had never thought a ride could last so long, though in reality it was only a minute or so. Coming down the corridor, he was nearly bowled over by the figure of the Captain all-out running from the opposite end of the corridor and the other lift.

He only shook his head tolerantly when no response save an apologetic look was forthcoming; Kirk disappeared ahead of him down the corridor, as his paced slowed while he double-checked his medikit.

He certainly wasn't hesitating just because he didn't want to see how bad the damage was, surely…

"BONES! Get in here!"

When the Captain wished it, which thankfully for his crew was not very often, his normally mild-mannered voice could shatter windows and even back Spock down in the worst of times. The physician almost dropped the kit at the shout, which was infused with more fear than he'd heard from the normally levelheaded Captain in many months.

He skidded to a halt inside the cell door and stopped short, stomach lurching up into his throat. His first instinct was to give Moriarty enough neural inhibitors to keep a normal man in stasis for a week. That immediate danger cared for temporarily, the next instant he was running a scanner briefly over the swaying figure of the Englishman, who was leaning against the wall beside the communications unit, arm upon the wall and his face hidden in it.

“You, sit before you fall.”

Watson nodded, more collapsing than kneeling on the floor below the comm-unit.

Kirk was kneeling beside his unconscious First Officer, vainly trying to rouse him. Apparently the Englishman had succeeded in figuring out how to release the stasis cuffs, for they and the instrument used to operate them were lying discarded on the floor beside the Vulcan. Any other indications of what had gone on were invisible, to McCoy's eyes, at least.

And he really didn't want to think about it.

"Spock?" When Kirk finally looked up, his tone shook with high-pitched tension, and clear panic on the rise. "Bones, he’s non-responsive. Can I touch him, do you think? Or will that make it worse?"

McCoy spun round, aimed the scanner at the Vulcan, and promptly exhaled for the first time. "He's alive, Jim." The Captain's face twisted in an expression of sheer relief. "Though there's no way anyone would know it without medical equipment – it's not Watson's fault he couldn't find respiration or blood pressure. Blasted Vulcan readings," he muttered, returning his attention to the wavering Englishman in front of him. "If there is telepathic damage, you’re probably the best one to touch him right now. Elevate his feet, and get that blanket on him, just try for no skin-to-skin contact. I don't want to do anything else until we know what happened."

Kirk nodded and scrambled to obey.

"What _did_ happen?" McCoy continued gently, as the other physician lifted his head.

The dull, uncomprehending blankness in the man's eyes was more frightening than the fact that he seemed to be having difficulty stringing a coherent sentence together. "I…I don't know, exactly," came the confused murmur. The scanner whirred alarmingly. "He…Moriarty has some kind of...power, McCoy."

"Yes, I know," the man soothed, taking hold of the other's arms in an effort to steady both of them. "He used it on you?"

"Yes…yes, I…"

"Bones, catch him!" The command snapped reflexively from the Captain was unnecessary, as the CMO was already moving to support nearly-dead weight as the Englishman's legs collapsed under him. McCoy’s strained swearing was cut short as Kirk jumped to help him; together they managed to get Watson over to the small cot, careful not to step on their prone First Officer.

"Bones, what _happened_ here?" Kirk whispered as they set the half-conscious man down.

"All I know, Jim, is that his brain-trauma readings are off the scale, and I don’t want to do more than scan Spock yet until I have better equipment that’ll tell me if it’s hurting him," McCoy replied soberly, eyes never leaving the other doctor's face. "Whatever that… _animal_ did to him, it was a hundred times worse than the mild dosage Holmes got. By any indication, this man should be dead _._ I dunno how he isn't."

"Mr. Spock," Watson managed to mumble clearly, clutching at McCoy's sleeve.

"Spock? What about him?" Kirk asked, leaning down close to the other's face to catch the words.

"He…protected my mind," the Englishman explained faintly. "Long enough for me to shoot Moriarty. Something about shock…making him vulnerable…" Watson's voice trailed off as his eyes fluttered closed.

"But – Doctor, I need to know –"

"Jim," McCoy warned softly. "He's unconscious, and he needs to stay that way. At least he won't be in any pain for now; and I've got two other patients to see to first. Leave him."

Kirk's face was ashen. "But…if _he's_ hurt that badly, and he was protected, then…"

The CMO had moved with the Captain back to where Kirk had carefully tucked the thin blanket around the motionless figure of his First Officer. The scanner whirred over the dark, tousled hair, the Vulcan's head now elevated once more on the Captain's legs.

"Move your hand, Jim, you're distorting the scan. There we go." His face set grimly in stone, McCoy glanced up from the scanner readings to meet the pleading eyes of his commanding officer. "Captain, you'd better get in touch with those ships coming, and see if either of them can pick up a Vulcan healer. We may need one."


	37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

**_Chapter Thirty-Seven_ **

_U.S.S. Dracone, in stable orbit over Aeternus_   
_Stardate 3957.3_

Kirk's throat spasmed visibly, but his voice remained calm – deadly calm. "Bones, you have to be able to do _something_."

"You know darn well I'll do everything I can!" the other retorted, while his hands remained busy, not skipping a beat. "But I can't heal mental trauma on a Vulcan any more than you can!"

"I doubt they're going to have a Vulcan healer anywhere in this quadrant," Kirk whispered, looking down at the motionless figure – more to hide his eyes than to re-check what he already could see. “They don’t tend to work anywhere other than the planet itself.”

McCoy's silence was a more eloquent agreement than a verbalization would have been.

The captain's head snapped up suddenly. "If we got him to Vulcan, do you think –"

"You can't do that and we both know it, Jim; you're not thinking clearly right now." The older man's eyes softened as he looked up from his work, wishing honesty could be more reassuring than this. "You've got a renegade ship full of sixty injured people, a crippled _Enterprise_ , and if that man's anything like Mitchell was that sedative won't keep him under for more than ten hours. I have to operate on Holmes and see to the Doctor before we can send them back, and even minimal recovery for Holmes will take at least two days, I've no idea about Watson. We're sitting on an explosion waiting to happen here, Captain."

"There's no reason I can't send Scotty and the _Enterprise_ to Vulcan, and keep the _Dracone_ here with Moriarty on board –"

"Jim." He shook his head in genuine regret. "You know Starfleet will never allow that."

"Starfleet can go to –"

A distant clattering of footsteps heralded the arrival of their med teams, and he sighed in relief as the Captain went into full Command Mode, bellowing orders down the corridor. Within a moment he was back at his First's side, darkened eyes never leaving the Vulcan's face until he was pulled gently away by McCoy.

"Careful, stabilize his head, watch his wrists - Morteu, don't touch his hands, you know better than that! That's it," the physician barked orders at a shaken Chapel and the male nurse assisting. Then he turned back to the still-stunned form of his superior, who was staring fixedly at the limp body of the Professor.

"Jim, if this man comes to and re-takes control of this ship, then we both know we won't get a second chance at this." McCoy indicated the prone figure upon the floor, and only now noticed that the man was bleeding sluggishly from a wound on his lower leg. A cursory scan revealed a double fracture of the tibia and fibula; painful, that. In his own century he would never walk properly again, and McCoy was tempted to just let the wound go untreated by more than nineteenth-century medicine.

If what he suspected the man had done _had_ been done, then death itself was far too lenient a penalty.

He quashed a pang of physician's guilt over that extremely unprofessional thought. "You can't choose one man's life over the timeline of the entire universe as we know it. Spock knows you can't, and I know you _won't_."

"You're right, Bones," Kirk finally muttered bleakly, watching the medical proceedings with unseeing eyes. "But…"

 _"Bridge to Captain Kirk,"_ Scotty's voice interrupted as opportune distraction.

McCoy winced at the force of a fist rammed down on the comm switch. "What is it, Scotty?"

 _"We're receivin' transmission from the_ Potomac _, Captain, entering the sector at Warp Six in response to our distress call."_

"On my way. And Scotty, send a Security team down here; put Moriarty into the highest security cell we have, in stasis restraints and a force-field. Keep six men to guard him, and make sure they're psi-null." Kirk turned, his eyes following the gurneys as they were swiftly moved into the corridor. "Bones…"

A hand on his shoulder, propelling him after them, was sufficient; but the reassurance was just that all the same. "You know I'll do all I can, Jim."

_If only that could be enough…_

* * *

It was six hours before Kirk was able to return to the unfamiliar Sickbay.

An hour after finishing speaking to Commodore Bellowe on the _Potomac_ , he'd been informed by Nurse Chapel that McCoy was performing the surgery on Holmes's skull fracture, and that neither of the other two injured men had come out of what appeared to be a deep coma in the Vulcan's case and a severe state of shock in the Englishman's.

The rest of the day had been a flurry of orders and counter-orders, protection being set up around the Portal in the event that Moriarty regained his full mobility and ability before the other two were physically capable of being sent back to their own timeline. Kirk had spent the better part of those six hours being transported back and forth between the two ships in orbit, so often that he was beginning to feel more scrambled than an upset four-layer wordplay board.

McCoy had sent a nurse down to bandage the leg wound on their prisoner and set the bones in a soft cast, but did no further treatment; the less mobility the man had, the safer they all would be. Moriarty himself seemed to be responding well enough to the neural paralyzer McCoy had shot him with – by that meaning, not responding to anything and completely unconscious. Perhaps the man's origin in another century made him more susceptible to the drugs of this one, the CMO had conjectured; though it soon became obvious that the inhibitors were lasting for less time with each injection. In another six hours they would have a problem keeping him out for longer than a half-hour at a time, and they ran the risk of overloading his synapses.

Not that that last mattered much to any of them, all things considered.

Kirk was secretly rather allured by the idea of making the renegade Englishman a mental vegetable. Through the whole afternoon into ship's evening, there had been no improvement in the condition of Spock and Dr. Watson, and he hated nothing in the world more than not _knowing_.

When he finally stumbled into the sterile ward, McCoy took one look at him and prescribed a stiff drink and the nearest chair.

Without wondering if it were the physician or Scotty who had brought the scotch over from the _Enterprise_ , he complied.

"Report, Doctor?" he muttered through the glass, throwing back the liquid in one swallow.

"Holmes is gonna be fine, Jim," the man voiced the diagnosis thankfully. "Couple of days' rest, and he'll probably be climbing the walls."

"And…Spock?" He forced the words out, not daring to look at his CMO.

The physician collapsed in the other chair, scowling a bit, for its padding did not hold the same comfortable contours as his own chair aboard the _Enterprise_. He sighed, long and low. "I have no idea, Jim. He's been in a coma-type state like this before, but heaven only knows if it's more dangerous than it has been."

"Is he in a healing trance?" Kirk asked hopefully, grasping at any straw.

McCoy shook his head in definite denial. "No; M'Benga says the readings indicate a lack of brain activity, not low and specialized activity like it is when they go into those crazy voodoo spell-things – Jim, for pity's sake, I didn't say he was brain- _dead,_ just that there's not much goin' on up there right now!"

The Captain's face had turned the color of three-day-old oatmeal at the phrase "lack of brain activity," and now McCoy mentally slapped himself at the realization that he'd frightened his friend more than he was already.

"Have another drink," he advised, shoving the exotic brew across the table.

Kirk shook his head, clearly nauseated.

"Did you eat today?"

A small headshake. Deflating slowly and visibly now that none but his old friend could see the lapse in the perfect captain facade, Kirk lowered his forehead to rest on his arms folded on the tabletop, as if he were simply too weary to hold his head up anymore.

Considering the lack of sleep the captain had had for the last three days, that rapid diagnosis had merit.

"When I said for you to _watch_ what you ate, that _did_ mean you needed to eat something," McCoy said kindly, managing a small smile for his CO's benefit. "Over thirty hours without food isn't a better solution than just laying off that Vulcan fruit-pudding for a night or two."

A weak, very limp chuckle emerged from the hidden features. _Small victories_.

"C'mon." He laid a steady hand on the hunched shoulder and, feeling the knotted tension beneath the uniform, squeezed it in a brief, gentle massage. "You can go see him; maybe he'll respond to your voice. Then you're gonna get some sleep, if I have to sedate you and inform Starfleet you've got the Altarian 'flu to do it. Understood?"

"Understood, _Captain_ McCoy."

"Don't make me sedate you."


	38. Chapter Thirty-Eight

**_Chapter Thirty-Eight_ **

_U.S.S. Dracone, in stable orbit over Aeternus_   
_Stardate 3958.1_

James Kirk awoke with a crick in his neck, an ache in his lower back, and a fistful of inadequate Sickbay thermal blanket in his mouth.

"Well now," and his subconscious recognized that that first sounded more like "Whayel nahw," indicating high exhaustion levels to uncover the heart of that layered accent, "look who decided to come back to the land of the living." McCoy's cheery voice, bright as a photon torpedo detonation and just as deadly.

Where was his phaser…

"Ughphht." He spat out a mouthful of fuzz and realized he had fallen asleep – or more likely had an encounter with McCoy's hypo-of-naptime – on the bed the CMO had evidently shoved close enough to Spock's to tempt him to stay there instead of on a chair.

The physician was even smarter than they gave him credit for.

"Coffee's on the desk, Captain. Hold it, you!" the physician was bellowing, hands on hips as he glared at a slightly incredulous, and more than slightly amused, private consulting detective.

Holmes was half-raised on his elbows, looking about him in slight confusion but mostly relief. "My compliments to your skill, Doctor," he declared, smiling. “The pain is most definitely improved."

"Flattery will get you nowhere. Lie back down there, this minute."

Though glaring knives at the CMO's turned back, Holmes obeyed, sighing and closing his eyes for a moment.

McCoy had been prepared for them to fly open when the man came fully alert, at the moment the drugs wore off and his memory returned fully. Even so, the flinging blanket nearly tripped him, wrapping around his ankles like a python as the Englishman fairly flew upright.

"Steady on there, Mr. Holmes," Kirk growled around his coffee. "That's the only Chief Medical Officer I have."

"Doctor, where –"

"Holmes – oof – " The physician disentangled the blanket with one hand and pointed a stern finger at the Englishman with the other. "Watson's alive, but he's been injured and he's asleep now. No, you _can't_ get up to see him yet," he added warningly as the detective's brows knitted in a gathering storm-cloud.

"Doctor McCoy, I am not a member of your crew and as such am under no obligation to obey your orders," Holmes stated regally, gaining his feet in the second of surprised silence occupied only by McCoy's mouth dropping.

Had Kirk's eyes not been on the indicators quivering above his First Officer's head, he would have laughed.

"Well, that's gratitude for you!" the physician grumbled, but he recognized the same cursed ornery streak that his two superiors possessed in great quantity.

"Doctor," Holmes warned, the pinched look about his eyes tightening in obvious anxiety.

"C'mon," the man sighed resignedly. "I'll take you to him…but he's resting, so for Pete's sake hush."

The voices trailed off as the two men entered the next cubicle, leaving Kirk alone with the silent figure of his Vulcan First and only the faint thrubbing of the Sickbay's monitors for company. The sinister near-silence of this crippled ghost ship was enough to raise the hair on the back of his neck, and the knowledge that they'd likely paid a dear price for this mission was almost more than he could stomach.

How many times must this Guardian take someone he loved before it was satisfied?

Sometime during the night McCoy had evidently set up several wards for the traumatized crew, returned to the _Enterprise_ to finish overseeing the treatment of those injured there in the battle of yesterday – was it only one day ago? – and returned to begin researching what little he could on Vulcan mental trauma. Those aboard the _Dracone_ who had not died from the psychic backlash were in almost as bad a shape as Watson, though more from shock than actual trauma, and it was obvious that there was not much even medical technology could do for them at the moment.

The thought occurred to him that his CMO probably had never gone to bed, and he smiled sadly as he contacted the _Dracone_ 's Bridge.

Finding that the situation had not changed and that Moriarty was apparently still under the control of McCoy's drugs, though their effectiveness was waning as the hours passed, he turned back to watching the pale face – paler than normal – of his First Officer.

If only he had not suggested that nerve pinch in order to get out of the cell! Together, they might have been able to withstand Moriarty's power; heck, he was sure of it, because Spock himself had said once that their minds combined were an incredible force to be reckoned with. But instead, he had left his friend to his fate while he spent far too long disabling the death-trap they had been captured in, abandoned him to fight off an enemy any human would have died facing, subjected him to the most vile violation known to his species. The fact that they had both agreed upon that course of action was no comfort, as the responsibility remained his for anything that occurred under his captaincy - and his friendships.

Now, Holmes was barely recovering, the Doctor was injured, and Spock in all probability...was dying. The universe, already tainted by Moriarty's influence, was falling apart despite their efforts to stop it.

 _His_ universe was falling apart.

But it had been the only course of action that could possibly save the _Enterprise_ and their mission, and as such they had both been obligated to take it. A large gamble, but their only chance.

But had he really _won_ the gamble? When did the stakes become too high to play, and when did the cost of winning stop being worth the risk?

McCoy returned to the room. The Captain watched as the physician rubbed his eyes and only succeeded in darkening the circles beneath them, and felt a twinge of regret that he hadn't stayed awake long enough last night to see that Bones got the same care he gave. That would change tonight, if he had to make it an order.

Nurse Chapel materialized from nowhere with a breakfast tray, chewed her CMO out for staying up all hours (with as much force as she could get away with without insubordination), and then vanished to return to the _Enterprise_ and her still-recovering crew.

Kirk snatched a piece of toast off the tray, bullied McCoy into sitting and eating the remainder, and then walked back over to the bed where Spock lay. The needles quivered, danced occasionally, and made absolutely no sense to his eye even for what he knew was normal Vulcan readings.

The only needle which made all-too-clear sense was the pain indicator, which fluctuated from intense to even more intense, and never dropped to a level even _tolerable_ for a human.

And Spock was half-human.

He set the partially-eaten toast down, unable to finish.

"M'Benga says he doesn't know how bad the damage is, Jim," McCoy muttered, barely picking at his food. His tone remained gentle, but he knew the Captain would require the unvarnished truth, however harsh it was. "Either he's waiting to be sure he's safe before he goes into a trance, or else he's really been damaged and he's not going to, period. No one knows exactly how Vulcans react to having their minds violated like that, at such close quarters, other than other Vulcans – and you know how they are with talking about their private lives…"

Kirk had known from the knot deep in his gut that that was the most likely diagnosis, but hearing it didn't ease the pain any. "We still don't know what that man did…"

"Watson came to a few hours ago, for a few minutes," McCoy replied, finishing his coffee. "He's still in a state of extreme shock, but doing extremely well, considering what sort of assault he's just been through. It's a wonder he's not dead, and he knows it."

"I doubt he realizes how… _serious_ , the violation is, Bones."

"Probably not. But he did tell me more about what happened." A barely-perceptible hesitation. "He said when he reached the brig, he…"

Kirk half-turned, though his face remained in shadow. "What did he see, Bones. I need to know."

"Not 'see,' Jim," the physician said softly. "He could hear. He could hear what must have been happening, and…well, in my opinion it's no wonder the poor devil is too scared to let himself go into a trance."

 _Scared_. A word he never would have associated with Spock, not in a million years in any timeline. Scared. Terrified, probably.

And Spock wasn't the only one.

"Bones."

"Yes, Jim."

Fists clenched tightly at his sides, Kirk whirled on his Chief Medical Officer in an angry snap of tension. "Is it so wrong of me…to wish I could execute that man right here, right now…instead of trying to right the timeline like Starfleet told us to?"

The physician was silent for a moment, and rose from his chair. He moved to stand behind the still figure of his captain, who, fit of anger now gone, was staring blankly at the pain indicator over the Vulcan's head – still fluctuating madly, erratically, as it had been for the last few hours.

Perhaps it was time for to voice the doubt that had been brewing in his head for a few hours now, ever since he realized that in another four hours or so his drugs would have ceased to affect the Professor. They had not much time left, firstly; and secondly, he had been bothered some time by the risk their original plan seemed to be taking with the flow of history.

Holmes and the Professor had been nearly equally matched at the first encounter in 1891 despite Moriarty's superior age. The Guardian was, theoretically, _supposed_ to return Holmes and Watson to the physical and mental state of their own time and history, once they returned through the Portal; that was a safety feature for people taken out of the slipstream and then returned to it. To not revert their bodies and minds to the time and date in which they returned would result in paradoxes; namely, more than one of themselves - two Holmeses, two Watsons - in the same continuum. If they took the Professor back to 1891, they would return as the 1891 versions of themselves, not the present-day versions.

However, due to the circumstances of the Professor's literally falling through a vortex into their century rather than being removed by the Portal, they had no guarantee that _Moriarty_ would be changed back in the same way as Holmes and Watson, nor of knowing if the mental powers unlocked and tapped in this century would disappear by reverting into the slipstream. They were playing a mighty dangerous game, and both he and Spock had pointed that out before the mission even began (naturally Command had not listened to their objections or those of the scientists on Aeternus).

Now, Spock was dying. And it was left to him, of all people, to advise the Captain on matters in which he definitely had a conflict of interest, medically speaking. Duty or Oath? Risk the life of one man, or the future of everyone and everything he held dear?

Added to this, that the crime Moriarty had just committed had been punishable by death in ancient Vulcan law, although there would never be proper justice for its severity in modern ‘Fleet law. Spock would _die_ , and one way or another they would ship this war criminal back into a different universe as a problem they didn’t have to get their hands dirty with.

It hardly seemed like the honorable thing to do, and if he’d learned anything from these visitors it was that this century could do with a bit more honor.

"Captain, who exactly was it ordered that the man had to be _alive_ when we push him back through the Guardian?"


	39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

**_Chapter Thirty-Nine_ **

_U.S.S. Dracone, in stable orbit over Aeternus_   
_Stardate 3958.3_

"I won't allow it."

"It is the only logical solution, Captain," Holmes answered calmly.

Kirk whirled on the man, eyes flashing. "Don't you _dare_ tell _me_ what's logical and what isn't!"

McCoy winced, feeling for the poor Englishman and his unfortunate choice of wording. The painful familiarity of the phrase was enough to provoke a response that never would have been allowed to show in front of a crew; but unfortunately for Holmes, they were only in the CMO's office of the _Dracone_. And James Kirk was hurting, over a very empty victory that could just as easily tip over into ignominious defeat if they did not act quickly.

"Captain, he's right, and we all know it," he interjected smoothly, to diffuse the anger before it could manifest itself into a form more regrettable than it already had. "If Moriarty is alive when he goes back through that Portal into the 1890s, then if the Guardian doesn't revert those telepathic abilities we'll be sending a ticking time bomb back with them. Moriarty has always had these powers, he just learned how to _use_ them here. Even if it reverts them, it won't remove them completely. That’s a risk we just can’t afford to take."

Kirk folded his arms, leaning against the wall and looking at the pale figure of the British detective, who was slump-seated at the nearby table. Holmes insisted he was nearly recovered, though they all knew better; but McCoy could not in good faith confine the man to a bed when so much was at stake in the next few hours.

The Captain ran a weary hand over his face, holding a cupped hand over his chin in a pensive gesture. "It isn't that simple," he explained worriedly. "Without Spock, we've no way of calculating the exact time of re-entry; the scientists down below think they have it down to a loose art, but they were counting on him to help them pinpoint the precise time and coordinates. Without his studies of the portal’s locational programming, we can't be more accurate than a day or two in either direction, if that. They’d need time to learn what he knows. Knew."

"And that's too much of a margin for error, and too little a margin for safety as it stands now," Holmes agreed. "The more pressing concern, I should think, would be to be placed in the correct location; the time is likely more flexible. But we can hardly drag Moriarty's body through the Swiss Alps for a week or more."

Kirk shook his head rapidly. "That's not a problem; the Guardian can be pretty accurate there – it dropped us just across the street from your house."

Holmes's eyes lit up in connection. "I had forgotten. Well, then, there should be little difficulty in the matter. All that needs happen is for this Portal to deposit us on the ledge above the Reichenbach Falls. The Professor will be…put to rest at last, and the device you and Mr. Scott have been discussing will close the vortex of which you speak."

"I don't like it," McCoy muttered.

"Neither do I," the Captain agreed shortly. "We have no way of knowing if _you_ will remember anything at all of your time here, Holmes, and if you do, how much. You could go through and not remember a thing, or remember everything. Either way, we have a problem."

"If I remember, then you would have a problem only if I for some reason fail to dispose of his body or collapse this anomaly at the foot of the Falls, leaving it open for any unsuspecting suicide victims in future," Holmes pointed out. “Perhaps a note of some kind to myself, instructing me accordingly? Or could the Guardian not allow the memories to remain for long enough that the deed be done?”

“That’s the problem, no one knows the mechanics of its capabilities except Spock, he was researching all of those alternatives before this all went to hell.”

“Hm. Have we considered that this Portal might simply return Moriarty’s body to its own last place of existence?”

Kirk blinked. “You mean…”

“If it, as you say, defaults to returning its inhabitants to their last place of departure, would it not then default to returning the Professor to his last point of departure?”

“You mean, it would dump him back at the bottom of the waterfall?” McCoy interjected incredulously.

“No, he has a point, it’s a possibility.” Kirk frowned. “Which would just create a cyclical paradox all over again.”

“Not if the body itself was, shall we say, rigged with whatever device you intend to use with which to collapse this anomaly of which you speak.”

“I suppose it might work…” Kirk replied, ignoring the vague noise of disgust from across the table. “So we would be gambling on a default of returning the two of you back to 1894, and Moriarty to 1891, whereupon we would hope the anomaly closed after him. That still is too big of a risk, in my opinion.”

“But it’s a better risk than sending them all through to 1891,” McCoy pointed out. “At least then, our timeline doesn’t get destroyed. Worst case, it’s a dead body that goes through the portal and we just failed to collapse the anomaly.”

“We would have no way to know it worked, though.” Kirk frowned. “What if the Guardian reverts him the entire way, Bones, and dumps him ten seconds before the fall, alive?”

“Ugh. And we wouldn’t know until we’re right back where we started.”

“Exactly. I don’t think we can risk not sending you back to 1891 to make sure he either arrives dead, or leaves dead.” A serious look across the table at the pale Englishman. “I’m still trying to find out how to make that happen without having you relive those three years. I have a promise to keep to your friend.”

"There are just too many variables here, Jim. Whenever you mess around with Time it's always trickier than ridin' a horse over a frozen river – and you have to be just as careful or you're dead. I don’t think we’re going to find a solution that works for everyone before that psychopath kicks off my sedatives and wakes up for good. We have to pick something, and pick it quickly."

"Ultimately, the fact remains," Holmes spoke at last, "that we _must_ take him back. And we must do it in the next few hours. If we do not, then both our worlds will fall apart. As I am the one taking the majority of the risk, I should prefer the Professor at least begin his journey deceased. Whether or not the Portal keeps him that way is yet to be seen."

"Holmes, that’s super risky. If he returns to life when you take him back through –"

"We repeat the process of execution," Holmes answered laconically, surprised and yet not at his own callousness.

"And if his telepathic powers remain in your century? You may not get the chance."

"The risk will be no greater than his regaining them in this century; the collateral damage will simply be of less consequence."

"If you're killed, Holmes, the whole thing goes down the drain anyhow, 'cause we can't take the tech into that time period to heal you if you fail. You could end up like Spock, or worse," McCoy interjected soberly, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the door of the office.

"Then I will exercise considerable caution, Doctor."

Kirk slammed a hand lightly down on the table for attention. "Gentlemen, this discussion is pointless. I will _not_ permit a plan of action as it stands right now, and I will not debate my command decisions with either of you. I'm…returning to the _Enterprise_ to talk to Scotty, and probably Starfleet Command," he added, more in a murmur than anything else. "Call me if there's any change, Bones. Good or bad."

"Aye, sir." The quiet, atypically respectful reassurance elicited a tiny, shaky smile, before the doors swished shut behind the retreating figure, half-slumped with weariness and dejection.

McCoy glanced at the detective, easily perceiving the annoyance the man held over his reasoning being discounted.

"Don't take it too personally, Holmes," said he, laying a hand lightly on the thin shoulder. Holmes had accepted the offer of a standard uniform from their century, rather than run about the ship in Sickbay scrubs; McCoy had to admit the blue tunic (Holmes had emphatically refused to wear gold) was ludicrous at best, and welcome comic relief at the moment. "No man should be forced to make the decisions the Captain's having to…and while basically the only family he has left is dying, to boot."

" _Dying_?" Holmes inquired, in a tone of horrified disbelief.

The physician's gaze lowered to drift aimlessly over his boots. "If there's no change in another few hours…then yes," he admitted softly. "Overall, his life-sign readings are dropping. Slowly, but they are. Blast it all, I can't _help_ him, and we're too far from anyone who can! He's just…fading away, and that's all there is to it."

"And…Watson?" The hoarse whisper was nearly inaudible, but McCoy heard it nonetheless.

"I think he'll be fine," he replied quietly. "Spock protected him long enough to prevent permanent damage from being done in the few seconds he was under that man's influence. I can't tell you more than that for sure until he's conscious long enough for some detailed tests." McCoy moved tiredly toward the doors, and they opened at his approach.

Then he paused and looked back at the morose figure still seated at the table. "But I can tell you one thing – if Moriarty gets loose again, we're _all_ going to die, and there'll be no stopping it," he said bluntly. "Don't think badly of the Captain, Holmes. If he makes the wrong choice…well, that's a starship-load of guilt no man deserves to carry for the rest of his life. We don’t condone the taking of life in this century, and it’s a bad day for all of us when we’re considering it out of self-preservation. It’s not a decision a man should be forced into making."

Holmes nodded mechanically, and the doors closed behind the physician.

"No. It isn’t…" the detective murmured thoughtfully, as one hand clenched around the table-edge.

* * *

This was _not_ shaping up to be a good day for Leonard McCoy, even only four hours into it. Granted, the fact that he'd had a grand total of sleep hours numbering exactly two and an odd twenty-minute catnap did not help.

Neither did the fact that one Dr. John Watson apparently possessed Vulcan-level stubborn tendencies even to a greater degree than Holmes, for when he entered the critical ward he found the Englishman sitting in a wheeled chair beside the bed of the unconscious First Officer, discussing, or feebly attempting to discuss, medical technique with M'Benga.

The latter looked up gratefully when McCoy entered; despite the fact that Watson's speech capability was somewhat slow yet – whole movements were, in fact – the younger doctor obviously had no idea what to do with the man or how far to answer his questions.

"You'd better help Christine synthesize some of those nerve impulse inhibitors, in case we have another episode like last night," McCoy said in dismissal. One of the traumatized crewman had come to briefly in the outer ward and had nearly torn apart a bio-bed mattress before his manic impulses were dulled by a sedative.

Jim, absolutely exhausted, had slept through the whole thing here beside Spock. McCoy smiled slightly and turned to the white-faced Englishman, who was obviously only holding onto consciousness by a fine hair.

"You're the worst patient I've seen since…your friend, last night," he informed the other conversationally.

Reading the Vulcan's life-signs, he swore again; they were down another fraction.

"It's…that bad, is it?" Watson whispered sadly, watching his modern counterpart work. "I can feel it, somehow. He’s dying, isn’t he, McCoy. He used the last bit of his strength to protect me, didn't he."

Biting down a caustic retort, because he knew it was just reaction from the knowledge that the truth _hurt_ , and that he would rather Spock have saved himself, McCoy was silent as he adjusted the monitor beside the bed. He accomplished nothing but to look like he was concentrating; the bitter wound was still there, an open and painful gash that might never heal if Spock didn't make it.

"Yes, he _did_ ," he finally snapped tersely, and walked across the room for another thermal blanket; possibly warmth might reach where other stimuli could not.

And if not, at least the poor devil could die in relative comfort.

He regretted the tone of voice when he turned around, to see the Englishman's eyes glistening with barely-repressed tears of compassion, and that he was blinking silently to hold the pain at bay. "I thought as much. I am truly sorry."

McCoy sighed, placed the blanket over the unconscious Vulcan, and sat on the bed's edge to talk to the seated man. "It wasn't your fault, Watson. And even if you'd known what he was doing, you wouldn't've been able to stop him. Darn fool is more unselfish than any human I've ever met…and don't ever tell him I said so, either."

Watson's lips turned upward slightly. McCoy returned the gesture, and then rose to look morosely at the readings over the dark head.

He heard a small sigh, and saw the Englishman hesitantly lay a hand on the limp shoulder and bow his head, either in prayer or thought.

Still staring at the indicator, McCoy's eyes widened suddenly.

Then he dove for the inter-comm, nearly taking a clattering pile of med-machines with him.


	40. Chapter Forty

**_Chapter Forty_ **

_U.S.S. Dracone, in stable orbit over Aeternus_   
_Stardate 3958.4_

"Sickbay to Bridge. Get the Captain back here, right now."

 _"Bones,"_ Kirk's voice snapped back after a moment, _"I'm still in the Transporter Room – what's happening?"_

"Get back up here, Jim."

A slight hesitation. _"Spock?"_

"Yeah. Get a move on." He grinned, face turned toward the wall to hide the hope on his face; no sense in displaying to any stray nurse how relieved he really was that the pointy-eared walking database might not die on him after all...

_"On my way."_

A very grouchy Sherlock Holmes wandered in a moment later, rubbing his eyes and head alternately and wincing at the obvious pain in both.

"Bed," McCoy ordered, pointing sternly.

"Watson's not!" The detective's protest was accompanied by a glare at his friend, like a six-year-old being told at a house party to go up to sleep an hour before his older sister.

"He _will_ be, soon as I'm done with him. Now c'mon; if you collapse we can't do anything with that charming professor friend of yours later," the man snapped, taking the Englishman's arm and propelling him toward the nearby bed.

"But –"

"Shush!"

Affronted but too weak to argue, Holmes arranged himself regally on the thin Sickbay pillows and assumed a martyred air. Testimony to how puny the other physician truly looked (and felt too, probably) was in the fact that he did not even crack a smile, only sat watching McCoy through half-closed eyes.

"You doing all right, old fellow?" Holmes asked softly when McCoy had turned back to the monitor over the First Officer's head.

Watson blinked slowly, rubbed his eyes. "I have been better," he murmured with a faint smile. "But from…what McCoy says, I am rather lucky to be alive. And I feel a deal stronger than last night."

"Twelve hours' sleep and medication will do that for you," McCoy growled cheerfully. "Now if you'd stayed in bed like you were supposed to, Holmes, you might not have that whopper of a headache right now."

"I assure you, Doctor, I am perfectly –"

The physician pointed smugly at the pain indicator over the bed. "Liar."

Holmes sniffed, betrayed by a machine he did not understand or _like_. "Your profession has not changed in three and a half centuries, Doctor," he informed the other two men, all the while glaring a hole in the CMO's cranium. "You are every whit as nagging as your archaic counterparts, McCoy."

"I'll _nag_ you, if you don't – ah, Jim," he cut himself off as his superior entered, looking rather ruffled; as if he'd run the whole way and only slowed down in the outer ward.

The normally healthy coloring of the Captain's face was blotched with exertion and worry. "Bones, what is it?"

"Just stand there and don't interfere, will you? Watson." Hazel eyes turned upward to meet the kindly blue ones. "Do that again, if you think you've got the strength to do it."

"Do what again?" Watson asked, puzzled.

McCoy lifted the Englishman's hand and placed it on the Vulcan's shoulder.

Kirk stepped forward, considerably incensed at the liberty the man was taking with his First Officer; physical contact with a Vulcan was a societal _no-no_ and his CMO knew better than to encourage it. "Bones, what the –"

"Cool it, or I’ll kick you out, Jim. That's it…" The physician watched the indicators above the Vulcan's head.

Nothing changed.

Frowning, he looked down at the puzzled Englishman. "What were you thinking when you did this before?"

"Obviously not that Vulcans find physical contact distasteful!" Kirk exploded, then subsided into mild glowering when he was impaled by McCoy's threatening look.

"I was…sorrowful, to know he had nearly given his life to protect my sanity," Watson replied readily enough. "And…wishing I could do something, _anything_ , to help."

"That's it!" McCoy's face creased in a wide grin. He bent down closer to the two men, with one hand on Watson's shoulder and the other close by Spock's head on the pillow. "Now do that again. Close your eyes if you have to, and concentrate. If you’re familiar with meditation? Try to find that mindset. And use those same feelings again. Keep trying."

The Englishman's face contorted in concentration. Holmes cast a worried look at the group. “Doctor, is –"

"Don't worry," McCoy replied calmly, scanner already whirring. "I won't let him hurt himself. But if I'm right…"

"Bones!"

The hushed whisper broke the tension, as the Captain stepped closer to the bio-bed, his eyes glued unswervingly on the readings.

The pain indicator had slid down. Just a fraction, so little that the difference was barely visible.

But it was _down_.

And the life-sign readings had slid _up_.

McCoy firmly stopped himself from laughing nearly-hysterically; one, they were not out of the woods yet and neither was Spock; and two, if the Vulcan ever found out about it, he would never hear the end of it.

"Bones, what…"

"Remember, Jim?" A quiet sense of calm infused the tone with warmth, matching the look in the CMO's eyes. "Spock _said_ he suspected the man was an empath. Derned Vulcan…he usually _is_ right."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, their CMO had sent Watson back to his cubicle for badly-needed rest (against a more vigorous protest than he'd have thought the man capable of giving, so exhausted was he), and Holmes had swept out after him in a trail of crimson thermal-blanket, leaving the other two staring after him.

"Reminds me of you and Spock when you don't get your own way," McCoy had remarked with a smirk, and busied himself about his work while the Captain watched.

"Bones, did you mean…Watson might be able to _heal_ him?" Kirk asked, breathless with hope.

"Nothing so drastic, Jim; I'm sorry." McCoy ran the scanner over the Vulcan, brows twisted in worry.

"Isn't that what an empath does?"

"In its purest form, yes; a true, full empath can take another's pain into his own body and deal with it. In his own way, Spock's partially like that with mental pain, I guess – remember that telepathic colony on Rubinius II?"

Kirk shivered, remembering all too well. The colony had been one entirely comprised of telepathic creatures, and one of them had held an instant hatred of him and attacked him one night under cover of darkness. He still had no idea how Spock had known he was in trouble, much less how he had driven the creature away, but he knew enough to know his First had been in considerable pain after doing what he could to ease the shock of the invasion to his superior's mind while Kirk was helpless, only half-conscious with the agony of it.

“I never thought about it that way," he replied thoughtfully. "But he's not an empath, he's a touch-telepath, Bones."

"Yes, I know, but he has empathic tendencies when it comes to the powers of the mind," McCoy explained further. "Empaths vary in their degree of abilities. The people of Betazed, for example – they can sense emotions from anyone and communicate mentally with other complete Betazoids, but they can't heal another's physical injuries or mentally speak to those who aren't themselves telepathic. There are different stages of the ability."

"And you think Watson's got that ability somehow, like Spock said?"

"At least he has the tendency, in an entirely raw form. I've a theory, Jim," he paused, inspected the scanner, and then ran it over the parietal lobe again, "that this century's atmosphere and technology act as a sort of awakening for these latent abilities. Watson, the Professor – for all we know, Holmes might have telepathic or abilities and just hasn't been given the opportunity for 'em to awaken; he is indirectly in the Vulcan ancestry, after all. They must be extremely special people in their time period – probably why they survived, given their occupations and the violence of that barbaric era. But even if Watson's _got_ the ability, it's untapped, raw, crude, and it'd be extremely dangerous for him to experiment with it. He's better off not knowing what exactly he could do, especially if we're gonna send him back today or soon at least."

"I agree." The Captain's lips tightened slightly as he moved closer to the bed, gazing down at the unmoving figure upon it. "Bones…can he really help at all?"

"He already has," McCoy replied with a tired sigh. "Blast these crazy readings, they don't make any sense even when he's doing okay! Anyhow, at the least, we know Spock was receptive to him. If Watson can convince Spock through whatever-that-was that he's safe enough to go into a healing trance, then possibly we might be able to save him, or at least keep him alive long enough to get him to Vulcan."

The captain’s eyes widened in sudden hope. "Then let's do it!"

McCoy shook his head. "Not now, we can't. Watson's too weak to do anything of the kind for another hour at least. You saw how he almost passed out just after a minute or so of that."

Kirk's lips tightened dangerously. "Does Spock have another hour?"

"Of course he does!" The reply was indignant, shot with affronted McCoy ire. "What kind of a doctor do you take me for?"

"A very, very patient one," Kirk hedged with a disarming grin, backing away at the irritated look he received. After a moment, when McCoy humphed loudly and went back to administering a vitamin-nutrient solution to the unconscious Vulcan, he edged back. "Bones."

"Hmm?"

When no answer was forthcoming, the CMO glanced up from his work and saw Kirk staring at a non-existent spot on the wall. A frown line deepened between the Captain's eyebrows as he watched, and he matched it unconsciously with his own. "Jim, what is it?"

Kirk's eyes flicked back to him sharply. "I keep feeling like there's some…easier solution to all of this. Like there's something, some factor, that we haven't thought of…something I'm forgetting, that would take care of everything." He frowned, concentrating. "Could there be some factor about this whole time travel thing that I'm not considering?"

"There could be dozens, Jim, you know time travel isn’t an exact science by any stretch," McCoy agreed with a shrug. "Usually it's Spock who calculates those rabbits out of his hat. Hard to do it all alone."

One eyebrow went up in an unconscious amused mirror of the man about whom they were speaking; McCoy wondered absently which of them had picked the habit up from the other. "Isn't that metaphor slightly mixed, Bones?"

"Nope," he retorted, playing along. "Vulcans don't believe in magic. It’s all cold hard logical equations to them."

"Speaking of," Kirk muttered, growing thoughtful again, "we're going to have a problem shortly with this Professor. What are we really going to do with him? I have no idea what to tell Command. I think at this point they’d be happy just to dump him out an airlock and cut their losses, but I hate not completing a mission. And killing a man in cold blood."

McCoy shifted his weight uncomfortably, rocking on his heels and then his toes in unease. He was, as Chief Medical Officer, in on most briefings, but these private spurts of advice-asking were usually held between his two superiors alone; he didn't belong in them, and knew his advice wasn't what Jim needed to hear. The Vulcan and the Captain worked so well together in an almost symbiotic relationship, that when one was incapacitated the other just sort of hung around aimlessly, like a lost puppy. He'd seen it more times than he could count with away missions gone haywire.

"Starfleet's orders were…?"

"Capture, return him to his timeline, kill him there. Either by my hand or Holmes's, Holmes's if possible, because we had no guarantee I could get in and out of 1891 without distorting the timestream."

"The ramifications if you kill him here are?"

"He could return to life when we take him back through anyway…he could be too hard to kill, like Gary was." Memory twisted the pinched features, but the Captain continued without skipping a beat. "And if we cut our losses here we lose everyone he’s killed in his rampage across the galaxy in the last three years.”

“Given how time travel isn’t an exact science, there’s no guarantee returning him is going to save those people, unfortunately.”

“I’m aware of that. I think the ‘Fleet is more concerned with potential ripple effects and wanting to close the anomaly at the bottom of that waterfall. Personally, I think the risk involved in any of the scenarios doesn't sit well with me, Bones; I wish we could just do away with him here and leave history like it was - but orders are orders."

McCoy strode over to the computer as an idea occurred to him. "Computer, ship's library, Earth literature, Victorian period. Search for Sherlock Holmes."

"Working…"

"Jim, Lord knows it's been decades since I read those stories of the Doctor's," McCoy said over his shoulder, hearing Kirk move to sit quietly on the edge of the biobed beside his friend, "but I seem to remember that the Professor wasn't alone on that day when he fought with Holmes."

He could almost hear the snap of Kirk's head coming up. "He wasn't alone?"

"Hold your horses. Here it is, the _Adventure of the Empty House_. Unless this is poetic license and it's more fiction than fact, the Professor had a pal above the waterfall…something about him throwing boulders down on Holmes at some point if memory serves."

He turned in time to see his Captain moan and rub his forehead with one hand. "If he wasn't alone then we could have a major problem!"

"A _very_ major problem, Jim. Holmes can’t just show up out of thin air anywhere near that Falls, much less with Moriarty in tow. Alive or dead."

"So we’ve been backed into a corner with two only bad possibilities now," Kirk said, staring at the pale face of his injured First Officer. "It’s his Past I’m gambling with, you know. I don’t like it.”

McCoy's blue eyes softened reassuringly, and he clapped his captain on the shoulder in a rare gesture of companionship. "You've gambled with all our Pasts before, Jim." Kirk’s eyes close briefly at the memory of their last visit to this planet, months before. “This time, whatever you decide? You’ll have my support. And his, if he wakes up.”

The answering smile he received was cut off suddenly by the emergency whistle on the comm-unit.

Kirk crossed the room in three strides and answered. "Kirk here."

 _"Bridge, Captain,"_ Uhura's voice, sharp with urgency. _"Sir, the_ Dracone _’s Transporter Room just activated its transport beam. Signs show two people have beamed down to the planet's surface without proper authorization."_

Kirk's mouth went dry, and he turned to find that McCoy was already darting into the next room after practically reading his superior's mind.

Within moments he was back, his eyes sober. "Watson's asleep. Holmes isn't in there."

"Brig, Security!" the Captain snapped into the intercom. "Status of the prisoner?"

No answer.


	41. Chapter Forty-One

**_Chapter Forty-One_ **

_U.S.S. Dracone, in stable orbit over Aeternus_   
_Stardate 3958.4_

While the physicians, McCoy especially, and nurses in this medical ward were kind and efficient, it nevertheless was a relief to me when they all finally departed the room, leaving Holmes and me alone at last. I had barely seen him conscious for longer than a moment or two, and those half-remembered through a haze of what had to be unusually effective twenty-third-century drugs. I was quite relieved now to hear his reassurance that he was practically fit as he ever was.

"This is indeed an age of miracles, my dear fellow," said he, currently perched upon the tiny table that stood a few metres from my bedside. "In our time I would no doubt be dead by now, as you would likely be as well. You must tell me what happened, Watson, for these gentlemen have been using terminology that entirely escapes my purview."

I endeavored, as best I could, to do so; though my speech was yet halting and uncertain, not to mention the fact that I had absolutely no idea what had truly taken place or what it meant save the dire consequences to Mr. Spock.

Holmes's brows knitted as I stumbled multiple times over simple monosyllabic words, and I attempted to explain that McCoy had said my mind was still healing and as such certain areas of the brain were going to be functioning rather slowly while I recovered. To unfortunately prove that point, before I had done with my tale I found myself suffering from absolute exhaustion, barely able to keep my eyes open as I tried to finish my story for Holmes's eager attention.

I did not realize I had dozed off until I opened my eyes again to see my friend sitting there, watching me with a curiously sad, fond expression upon his face – one that immediately transitioned into his usual calm serenity once he realized I was again conscious.

"My apologies," I managed, though the very words seemed leaden as they fell heavily from my lips, so weary was I.

"My dear fellow, you have nothing to be sorry for; rather I do, for I should not have asked such a prolonged conversation of you in your state," he replied softly, and if I had not been half-muzzy from McCoy's drugs I might have taken further notice of his melancholy air. "I…merely wanted to know the details, as we have not had a chance to compare notes yet."

I squinted up at him in some confusion. "Where did I…leave off?"

He smiled, though the movement did not reach his soft grey eyes, and stood from his perch to lay a hand upon my shoulder. "It is of no consequence, my dear fellow; I have learned what I need to know," said he, and I watched with amusement as he cast a glance at the monitor over my head – as if he could truly read what it indicated! – and then scowled at it. "I believe you must rest now, Doctor."

"What are they going to do, with Moriarty?" I protested the return to unconsciousness, for I had been given no particulars about the rest of our mission.

Holmes's gaze drew inward, a brooding and somber look and gesture preceding his words. "The Captain believes, as I do, that Moriarty must die. Here, and now, without risking his return to our timeline,” he informed me, tapping a finger against his lips in thought. "Kirk simply does not want to commit to such a drastic course of action. His hesitancy does him credit, as a military leader in time of peace; but it is foolishness. Within two hours, if not before, Moriarty will have thrown off this century’s medical abilities to keep him unconscious, and if he succeeds, we will all be lost."

"What if we do…execute him, here," I asked, trying to stifle a yawn; it was growing harder and harder to concentrate as the fuzzy darkness of sleep began to creep into my vision and cloud my thought processes. However, I did not much fancy outright killing a man any more than Kirk did, no doubt. "Are we…are we to take him back with us, then?"

"No, we will not,” Holmes replied with an odd, small smile. "The Captain will keep his promise to you on that, dear fellow, and I intend to see that he does. Moriarty must go back, but you will not have to live those years over, no matter the outcome."

"Good," I murmured, and allowed my eyes to close for a peaceful moment. "That would be…a long three years, Holmes."

When he answered, my friend's voice was grave, with an overlying tinge of sadness. "Indeed, it will be."

I tried to open my eyes again, but was stilled from the immense effort by Holmes's gentle hand upon my shoulder.

"Sleep well, my dear Watson. You will see me again, very soon." I heard the low whisper just before I fell asleep, and only later did it occur to me to wonder at the odd phraseology of that last sentence…

* * *

"I'm going to _kill him_ , Bones."

"You may not have to," the physician retorted dryly, while attending to the dazed crewman who had seriously underestimated the Englishman's proficiency in the martial arts. “If we don’t get down there after him, he’ll technically be dead already, three hundred-odd years ago!”

"I'm sorry, Captain!" the hapless Ensign practically wailed, while cringing under McCoy's heartlessly swift administrations. "I did try to stop him from beaming down! How was I to know he’d learned how to operate the system in forty-eight hours?"

McCoy finished treating the bump on the back of the man's head, pronouncing him fit enough for duty, if miserable. "How the heck did he manage to get Moriarty down with him, anyhow, if the man’s still unconscious? And you should court-martial Scotty for lettin' him figure out how to use anything aboard, much less a Transporter - he could have beamed himself into open space!"

"I don't think Commander Morbus was fully conscious, sir, I did see that much," the Ensign offered. “He was stumbling quite a bit, and with that bad leg and all.”

"One thing to be thankful for, I suppose. A broken leg isn’t going to stop him from taking out everyone on the surface if he fully snaps out of those sedatives, though!"

"Which is why don't have time for this discussion, Bones!" Kirk snapped, already in place on the Transporter pad. "If they make it past that team of scientists into the Portal without knowing what they’re doing upon re-entry to the slipstream, we could be in for some serious trouble. Beam Dr. McCoy and me down immediately, Mr. Jacobson."

"Aye, Captain."

"Jim, I can't leave Spock like this –"

"You have to," Kirk ordered, fist clenched tightly at his sides. "If they get through the Portal, and if Holmes fails, Spock is dead anyway and we will be too. If the _Enterprise_ disappears because he doesn't get the timeline restored, then we have to be on the surface, protected from the effect like we were the first time."

“But Jim –"

"I did not ask for your arguments, Doctor!" For a moment, something like anger flashed across the expressive features, just as quickly chased by a flood of remorse. "We don't have time, Bones," he amended quietly. "It's a noble gesture on his part, hoping that he can fix the timeline alone, without making his friend relive those three years or forcing me into the decision for execution – but the risk is too great. I will not allow it."

"He might know what he's doing, Jim," McCoy answered quietly, taking his position. "He knows the man's mind better than we do. Maybe he has an endgame we haven’t thought of."

"Then he should have communicated it before attacking one of my crew and absconding with a Federation prisoner. There’s too much at stake for him to be a loose cannon. Jacobson, lock onto the coordinates of the last transport."

“Aye, sir. Coordinates locked.”

"I don't like leaving Spock and Watson without any warning or telling them what's happening!"

"Neither do I," the Captain answered, eyes downcast, "but if the _Enterprise_ and Spock and all the rest disappears because of the timeline being polluted, then it's best they not have to wait for it. They'll just slip away painlessly in this case. Mr. Jacobson, energize."

* * *

While my awakening the first time in this strange ship's medical bay had been both painful and emotionally wrenching, despite what McCoy informed me was a rather heavy pain reliever, my second awakening was not so traumatic. It was, however, as painful; by that, meaning that the only other time I could remember having such a terrible headache was one night soon after Holmes's return to London, when a hilarity-infused theatre night had evolved into rather more indulgence in spirits than either of us were accustomed to.

I had awakened the next morning in my old room at Baker Street with a headache of epic proportions, and Holmes had not awakened at all until later that afternoon, whereupon he was promptly ill and went back to bed immediately.

Mrs. Hudson had not been amused, though she admitted to giggling the night before when my friend ran into the hat-stand in the semi-darkness and had a lengthy conversation with it about its poor choice of headgear on such a wet night.

I spent a moment rubbing at my temples, hoping the pounding there would recede, but had no great effect; evidently even in this century no amount of drugs or equipment could magically heal whatever damage had been done to my mind, according to McCoy's estimate. But finally, as the throbbing was dulling into a more manageable level, a very attractive blonde nurse entered…Chapel, if I remembered the name correctly, though I had thought her to be on the _Enterprise_ all the morning.

"Doctor Watson, are you feeling any better?" she asked by way of conversation-starting.

Ruefully I shook my head, knowing honesty was the best policy in medical situations. "Stronger, possibly. But better…no, not really."

"That's to be expected," she reassured me with genteel confidence.

"Where is Holmes?" was my next question, as he had been there when I fell asleep but obviously was absent now. Lord knew what trouble he was getting himself into, bored and irritable on this incredible ship. In addition, he had seemed rather disturbed when he had last spoken to me; just before the drugs took effect against my will I had the strangest half-blurred remembrance of his face, drawn and resolute, and of a quiet farewell close to my ear that seemed ridiculous considering the fact that I would see him shortly upon awakening. McCoy's potion had taken effect before I could identify the words for more than they were or even process the fact that they had been spoken – but at least now, the drug's after-effects seemed to be considerably less potent than in our time. I felt only slight residual haziness, nothing more discomfiting.

Nothing, at any rate, except unease over the fact that Holmes was not here as I had expected him to be.

The nurse's sudden attack of fidgeting first puzzled and then alarmed me, as did the fact that she did not seem capable of giving me a straight answer to my question. Closing my eyes for a moment, I concentrated on calming myself and in the process realized something was very different – I could only describe it as a detachment…a _dis_ -awareness.

I could no longer feel the pleasant warmth that had followed me protectively, as Holmes sat with me an hour ago until I fell asleep.

The nausea that churned suddenly in the pit of my stomach, I suspected did not stem from the side-effects of McCoy's medicines.


	42. Chapter Forty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor character death and discussions of assisted suicide. Please heed the warning if that's triggering.

**_Chapter Forty-Two_ **

_U.S.S. Dracone, in stable orbit over Aeternus_  
_Stardate 3958.5_

The nurse, Miss Chapel, attending me as well as others in the ward was personable enough, though highly efficient; so much so that I realized without needing to be informed that in this century women were certainly regarded as equals with men, and were indiscriminately put into positions of authority based upon ability and not gender. While the idea was, quite frankly, _shocking_ , it was also rather fascinating to think of. And, if ladies of this time could be authoritative and obviously competent and still retain that feminine mystique that I had seen thus far (though their clothing choice left little mystery to the imagination), then I anticipated the day in the far future when this equality would be commonplace, and when men would treat the females of their societies with rather more respect than some of my own time's counterparts treated theirs – as ornaments on the arm, rather than as respected and intelligent colleagues in their own rights (as a general rule). I anticipated the day when exceptionally intelligent women such as my own late wife would have their talents be recognized as such.

I spared one thought of amusement, considering what our century's suffragette movements would make of such knowledge, before the world suddenly seemed to accelerate its turning around me, dizzying me instantly with a sense of vertigo so painful I reflexively clutched at my head. Unable to understand what was happening – or rather what _had_ , for the feeling was already dissipating slowly – I bit down on a moan and attempted to set my world in order.

"Doctor Watson, are you all right?" I heard the nurse asking, through a haze of pain.

I was preparing to answer when an alarm sounded from the other room. My vision clearing after a moment, I perceived the woman's face pale instantly. "That's Mr. Spock's alarm!" she exclaimed, casting me a look over one slim shoulder.

The Captain would be in a right state if the man died, I already knew that, and therefore waved her on hastily. "Go to him; I am perfectly all right."

She did not argue, only fled the cubicle with enough speed to set that short skirt fluttering and my face averting hastily. The feeling of ice spreading through my veins sufficiently chilled my embarrassment into a sick feeling of dread. Something terrible had happened, but I had no idea what.

I should be glad to get back to my own century where these supposed "abilities" I was presumed to have would revert into an unused and unaware state; better still, to get back to Baker Street with Holmes and pretend that this had all been some fantastic nightmare.

But added to my increasing worry for my friend was the terrible feeling that the alarm still sounding in the other room did not bode well for the well-being of the man the Captain regarded though had not openly said was his closest friend. I had already seen what the man was capable of when emotionally distraught. I did not wish to see a further demonstration; I knew better than any of these people how far a man could go, half-mad with grief over that kind of loss.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, grateful for the fact that they had been kind enough to allow me to keep my own trousers (though this ridiculously short-sleeved black shirt was somewhat embarrassing) instead of those garish blue hospital pyjamas, and waited warily for the attack of vertigo I suspected would come.

Fortunately for me, I felt nothing more than a pounding headache which made it hard to concentrate, and some residual nausea. I exited the cubicle to find the critical ward in something of a small uproar, as much as it could be when its sole conscious occupant was Nurse Chapel.

She was speaking hurriedly, frantically I should say, into the wall communications unit, and from what little I could hear was requesting the presence of the other physician I had met aboard the _Enterprise_ ; obviously from what I could observe the man was more of an expert on Mr. Spock's health than even McCoy was, though for what reason I could not discern.

Steadying myself with a hand upon the cool wall, I looked over at the First Officer, and immediately saw why the nurse was so alarmed – the indicators which McCoy had shown me to indicate brain activity and respiration were fluttering erratically, after having been stationarily low for so long. Dipping downward, upward, quivering in place, they sometimes for a few seconds would drop so critically low that the alarm would sound again.

And judging from the fear fairly radiating off the woman's figure, this was not a good sign.

I stood by the bed and its unconscious occupant, yet overwhelmed by the knowledge that this gentleman – for alien or not he was as gentle and noble a being as I had ever met – had been willing to push himself beyond the point of safe return in order to give me, as well as his ship and his Captain, a fighting chance for survival.

I was brusquely brushed aside by the physician M'Benga, who came barreling through the doors so quickly they barely had time to open all the way.

"What's happening, Doctor?" I heard the nurse ask worriedly.

"He was stable before; now he's not," snapped the reply as the man glared at the readings. "Something's happened to upset his mind again – what the devil would it have been?"

"Just before the alarm went off, I too felt something," I suddenly interjected, the connection lighting up before me. "A sudden flare of nausea, and the knowledge that something was terribly wrong…could the same thing have happened to him?"

"Only if both of you are mentally linked somehow to whatever it was," M'Benga growled, administering the hypospray the nurse handed him after checking the dosage the standard three times. When the readings continued to quiver and slide lower, I heard a burst of fluent cursing in a melodious language I could not readily identify. "We're going to lose him if we can't stabilize him, Nurse. He is no longer fighting to understand what has happened. We need McCoy, and possibly the Captain too; he could be the only person aboard who might make it through to him. At this point, that's our last hope. Get them _now_."

"Dr. McCoy is on the surface with the Captain and Mr. Holmes," she replied, though I could tell she was close to biting back tears. Suddenly a flash of anger shot across her pretty face as the needles dropped another fraction, and she leaned over the unconscious Vulcan, whispering as if entirely unaware or uncaring of my presence. "Mr. Spock, so help me if you die I'll – I'll never forgive you!"

"Not to mention the fact that the Captain will never forgive _us_ ," the other physician muttered under his breath as he darted past me to the inter-comm to bellow again for the Bridge to recall the Chief Medical Officer.

I moved back closer to the bed, rubbing my head in an effort to ease the pain, and watched the nurse as she stood motionless, seeing the officer slip away sadly, silently.

"What could save him now?" I asked quietly.

"A Vulcan healer is the only thing that can work that kind of miracle, but he could heal himself if he could just go into a healing trance, Doctor," she explained with admirable patience, though her voice was tinged with bitterness. "It's a part of their race's abilities, that ability to sink deep into that mental state and allow the body to heal itself; but during those trances which can last for days Vulcans are completely vulnerable. He just won't put himself into one! Dr. McCoy thinks somewhere in his subconscious he's afraid Moriarty is going to come after him or the ship again and he won't chance being caught helpless. He just can't seem to realize it's safe…" She trailed off, blinking twice before turning back to furiously re-arranging the items on a side table.

I sat on the empty chair the Captain had left earlier, and wondered if I dared make such a gamble as I was contemplating. Was it a mistake that could instead plunge the patient further into fear, and was the risk worth the candle? Would I be resented for making the attempt, as it likely was a privacy invasion, or would that even matter if the man was beyond all other help?

Behind me, the other physician's increasingly tense voice decided for me. "Try them again, Lieutenant, and keep trying until one of them answers – he's dying!"

I took a long, deep breath, closed my eyes, and reached out to rest a hand on the blue sleeve.

* * *

_Planet Aeternus, Surface_

The _Dracone_ 's transporter system, McCoy decided, he disliked even more so than the _Enterprise_ 's. It took a full two seconds longer to materialize on the planet's surface (he had been too worried to notice earlier when beaming over to the _Dracone_ ) and an extra five seconds for his stomach to reassemble itself into proper position. The aforementioned stomach promptly dropped out again beneath him as he took a tentative step forward behind his Captain, only to see the scene that had evidently transpired in front of the Time Portal.

Kirk stiffened, silent with blank realization.

"Oh, dear Lord…" was whispered behind him, for despite the terrors of what had happened aboard the ship orbiting above, McCoy was still to the last a doctor.

And somehow the sight of a corpse never failed to bring out that icy chill of a skeletal, primitive horror from the deepest closets of both their minds. Death, even necessary death, was never pretty – but it was even worse with such a barbaric weapon as the hand-pistol the Englishman clutched in a white-knuckled grip. How he had found it and taken it from his medical friend they had no idea, but it was too late for self-recrimination.

"Captain. I half-suspected you would shortly follow me. There was no other way, gentlemen," Sherlock Holmes spoke quietly, the dark head bowed as if the planet's gravity had suddenly increased by twenty factors just where he stood. "I believe we all knew that."

McCoy swallowed on his revulsion, knowing deep down the Englishman was right – and that Morbus was _already_ dead, really, if they wanted to get purely technical about it. Also, some might argue that this was more humane than shoving the man off a waterfall, as Starfleet had ordered them to do, and certainly more responsible than foisting him off on men not even of their century, then washing their hands of the whole affair in the blind hope it would resolve itself…but he still was unable to voice any agreement.

"Give me the gun, Holmes," Kirk spoke, his voice soft, and held out a hand.

The Englishman started slightly, obviously coming out of shock, and then obediently placed the weapon in the Captain's palm, barrel pointed carefully ground-ward. Kirk passed the antique pistol to the physician and then looked down at the still form.

"I gave explicit orders, Mr. Holmes," he iterated icily, voice hard as tritanium and as impenetrable, betraying nothing but cold command anger.

"That you could not, morally justifiably, follow, Captain," Holmes answered calmly, clasping his hands behind him in a hauntingly familiar gesture that nearly undid the firm facade that had sustained the exhausted captain through the worst three days of his life. “Also, and while I respect your position, I am not a member of your crew. I do not answer to your Starfleet, or your century’s morality laws.”

Kirk bit the inside of his cheek to remain in control. "The duty of execution falls upon the Captain, Mr. Holmes. You are out of line."

"Very possibly, sir," Holmes replied, unashamed. "But on shore you have less authority than ship-board, correct? You cannot be held to blame for my actions here, as I am not a member of your crew nor is this planet under your direct jurisdiction as those ships are. I would not see you in trouble with your superiors. Within the hour, this man would have been free of your century's drugs and would have no compunction about murdering us all - or worse - where we stood, including your helpless First Officer and my friend Dr. Watson. He had to die, Kirk. You know this as well as I."

McCoy muttered something unintelligible, and stood from his cursory examination of the deceased mathematician.

"Is he dead, Bones?" Kirk asked, not taking his angry gaze from the impassive face before him.

"Very." The word was bitten off as if leaving a bitter taste in the mouth. "Shot through the heart; death would have been instantaneous, and even if not it'd be painless with the amount of nerve paralyzers I'd pumped him full of. I'm surprised he was lucid enough to even listen to you, Holmes."

Holmes's chin lifted slightly. "I am not inhumane, Doctor. I offered him two alternatives, and he made his selection, lucid enough to recognize that I would not permit him to do further harm, and not foolish enough to attempt another battle with such a disadvantage. To offer less of a choice than I did to such a brilliant mind would be…insulting, and dishonorable to the man he once was."

"What choice?" Kirk asked suspiciously.

"Either that he could, with his admittedly sluggish mental abilities, cause his brain functions to cease completely – effectively, committing telepathic suicide; or that I could perform that duty for him, as one gentleman to another."

"As one _gentleman_ – you –"

"Bones," Kirk warned, holding up a hand.

"Captain," Holmes interjected quietly.

"Yes?"

Holmes's eyes were cold, stormy, like the dust-winds of an arctic desert planet. "Kirk, if you knew your Captaincy was ending, your career in ruins, you yourself possibly going mad, and that you would soon be imprisoned and then executed by whoever your greatest enemy in this century is…would you not prefer death at a friend – or even a friendly enemy – at _his_ hand, rather than be subjected to the humiliation of such an inglorious defeat?"

McCoy, watching, saw the Captain suddenly go quite still, obviously half a galaxy away in his mind.

He knew what the answer would be. He'd heard the conversation in Sickbay six months ago after a nearly-fatal mission. He'd done a lot of eavesdropping in his career, but no bit of information had given him quite the chills as the knowledge that his Captain had given standing orders to his First Officer to kill him, if he ever came any closer than this last mission had taken him, to succumbing to insanity and breaking his Starfleet oath under the Klingons and their thrice-damned mind-sifting machine.

He wasn't sure whether to be sick at the knowledge of how horrific the torture had been to his Captain and friend, or frightened half out of his wits by the fact that the Vulcan had solemnly vowed to kill Kirk himself if necessary rather than allow him to live the rest of his life in a less-than-vegetable mental state, disgraced and helpless as a traitor to their cause.

He couldn’t say he approved, because he couldn’t make that decision for another man; but he did understand it, and he wouldn’t judge a proud man his personal choices.

Shaking off the mood, the physician returned to the moment. Holmes had remained where he was, uncertain, morose…inscrutable and tense. Waiting for a verdict, no doubt, judgment to be passed from this man of a different time and era.

Finally the Captain sighed, and dropped his head. "I would prefer it…and wish for it," he agreed in a low tone.

McCoy was in time to catch the Englishman as relief snapped the string of tension that solely held the still-injured man upright.


	43. Chapter Forty-Three

**_Chapter Forty-Three_ **

_U.S.S. Dracone, in stable orbit over Aeternus_

_Stardate 3958.5_

McCoy had only a moment in the lift to spend in contemplating the mores of what their English friend had just done; the majority of his thoughts were occupied with the crisis they'd been informed upon beam-up was taking place in the Sickbay, and with the set jaw and unseeing eyes of his commanding officer.

When the Captain did not move after the lift doors swished open, he poked the younger man gently as he brushed past, not willing to stand on protocol when there was a medical emergency and Spock might be coding or something while they stood around and talked out the captain's issues. Kirk started as if coming out of a daydream – more like a day _mare_ , in this case – and then followed automatically the remaining few yards.

Already running over any possible last-ditch techniques he could try on Spock, recalling anything and everything that he'd learned from that seminar on Vulcan he'd sat through a year ago on a brief shore leave (now he wished the heat hadn't been stifling enough to put him half to sleep before the first intermission), the physician burst into the ward, expecting chaos and panic.

Instead, the room was silent – too silent.

He knew the Captain felt it too, because he heard the sharp, frightened intake of breath behind him as he moved across the ward in three long strides.

"Nurse, what–" His mouth dropped as Chapel moved to allow him passage and sight of the suffering First Officer's bed.

"Bones?" The Captain's whisper sounded in his ear as he tried to see over the CMO's shoulder.

"He's going to kill himself, M'Benga!" McCoy snapped after that solitary shocked moment, seeing his Victorian counterpart seated beside the bed, one hand on the Vulcan's motionless shoulder and slumped half-against the bed itself as if he'd just keeled over there. "The man's brains were scrambled just like Spock's, and he isn't trained –"

"He is all right for now, sir," the other replied, with more reassurance in the tone than correction. "I've been monitoring him. No severe strain as of yet. I don't believe, from these readings, that he's trying at all to heal. Only to reassure, to project a sense of calm and security."

"Reassure?" Kirk asked suspiciously.

McCoy's eyes glinted. "Of course, that's it," he pondered aloud, slowly. "If he can just create a sense of safety, let Spock know the threat isn't there anymore…"

"He _can,_ theoretically, help induce a healing trance," M'Benga finished with a nod of agreement.

"Is it…working, Bones?"

"Not yet, Captain," Chapel reported crisply, indicating the needles above the Vulcan's head. "But he's only been at it about a minute or so. He slipped in there unseen while we were trying to reach you."

"We were beaming aboard. Moriarty is dead," Kirk replied tersely, fists clenched as he watched the scene. "I'm surprised there wasn't any further telepathic backlash, with Watson at least."

"Actually, Captain, he did complain of a headache soon after he woke, and that was when Mr. Spock's brain-wave indicators began dancing around like that," the nurse answered thoughtfully. "It's possible, wouldn't you agree, Doctor?"

"Definitely," McCoy nodded. "Watson complained of a headache when Holmes was with you two over here as well; I think there's a shallow, unconscious mental link between the two of them, if you want to call it that. He probably felt Holmes's guilt at executing that…" He trailed off suddenly, eyes wide, as the Englishman suddenly withdrew his hand and promptly slumped against the wall, breathing shallowly. "Is –"

M'Benga grinned, showing a bright flash of teeth in his strained face, and stepped back from the bed to allow his superior access.

Silence fell for a long moment. Then, "Get Watson back to his bed, M'Benga, and see that he stays there until the trauma reading drops to a tolerable level," he said quietly, and indicated a nearby Security guard (preceding their dead prisoner and the unconscious form of Sherlock Holmes atop two anti-grav gurneys) to help the semi-conscious man to his cubicle.

"Bones, _tell me_ …" Kirk ground out through his teeth, eyes on the still face and limp features of his First Officer.

McCoy's head snapped up in a half-hearted attempt to stand at attention, though the effect was ruined by the suspect twitching at the corners of his mouth.

Finally he let the grin show, nearly spanning his head in its relieved brilliance. "Captain, if I remember that documentary on mental trauma correctly, in about five days you're going to have a very, very cranky Vulcan chewing my head off to let him out of here."

Kirk’s eyes went wide, and McCoy thought with amusement that it didn't take a blasted empath to know that if a Security detail hadn't been carting a dead mathematician through the room at that moment the man would have indulged in a very un-Captain-like sob of relief. Still, Captain or no, the CMO suspected the hands coming toward him were intended as a relieved bear-hug, but instead turned into a shaky grope for support as the strain of the last few days caught up with the exhausted man.

"Since I know I'm not gonna get you out of here anytime soon, at least sit yourself down," he ordered kindly, in one smooth motion pushing his captain into the vacated chair. "Take a few minutes, get your head on straight before Starfleet puts you on the hot seat over what happened down there on the planet."

A muttered expletive of anticipation regarding what the higher-ups would say over Moriarty's execution was his only answer, and with a reassuring squeeze to the Captain's shoulder the physician moved on to the cubicle where the English doctor was lying back upon his bed, eyes closed and face limp in unconsciousness.

"He's all right, Doctor," Chapel reported with a small smile; he suspected those were tears she was blinking back, but of course he would never have said anything about them. "Just exhausted, and there is still trauma to the brain that needs to be healed."

McCoy leaned down over the sleeping man to pull the thermal blanket up over the still hands, thanking every lucky star within two hundred parsecs that no damage had been done with that crazy fool stunt. "We'll see about that later," he answered, dimming the lights in the cubicle and preceding the nurse out. "Go get Holmes stabilized, Nurse, and then beam back over to the _Enterprise_. The Captain'll want a full report on all casualties within the hour."

"You'll have it, Doctor."

He looked in on the critical patients left over from the _Dracone_ crew, toured the rest of the ward, contacted the _Enterprise_ to make sure there was no medical emergency, checked to find that Holmes had simply collapsed when the stimulant wore off and only needed the sufficient time to recover from the surgery (the fact he thought he would have the strength to execute and then take Moriarty back through the portal showed clearly how clouded his thinking still was), and finally returned to the bed holding Spock.

Kirk was standing now with his arms loosely folded, watching the even readings and the methodic breathing of his First Officer. Already, Spock's color had changed from the waxy yellowish sheen to a slightly more healthy shade; it did McCoy’s heart good to see it, though he'd inject himself with cordrazine again before admitting it to the Vulcan.

"He'll be fine, Jim, unless something goes wrong," the CMO voiced confidently, coming up beside his captain. "Can't say how long it'll take him exactly to wake up, but one of us will be here with him at all times. We’ll be ready to bring him back, whenever he decides it’s time."

"Good." The solitary, simple word held all the force of a supernova behind it. Kirk squared his shoulders and turned to face McCoy. "Then I've got to contact Starfleet and decide what we're going to have to do now. There’s still the question of what will happen after we take Moriarty back to 1891 England...Switzerland, I should say. If they want us to bother, at this point. I don’t know how Holmes thought he was going to manage that in the condition he was, but at least he bought us all the time we need to receive new orders."

McCoy nodded thoughtfully, and then called after the captain as he began to leave. "One thing, Jim."

"Hmm?"

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the recovery ward. "Holmes is going to need to talk to you at some point, Captain. You'll probably need to convince him he didn't commit cold-blooded murder."

"I'm no psychiatrist, Bones…"

"But you've had to do exactly what he did," the physician retorted firmly. "It needs to come from you. I may not like what he did, but the only basic difference between Moriarty and Mitchell is that Mitchell got his powers from a freak storm, and he wasn’t a criminal mastermind in another life. The end result is the same – and so were the choices that led up to it. On both sides."

Kirk blew out a long sigh, rubbing his forehead before straightening back up. "Point taken, Bones. I'll talk to him as soon as you say he's fit to leave Sickbay, all right?"

"Good." McCoy smiled. "Now go talk to the brass; Spock won't even know you're here for another few days."

He received a slow answering smile before he was left alone in the Sickbay, listening to the comforting chirp of monitors and machines.

* * *

_U.S.S. Dracone, in stable orbit over Aeternus_   
_Stardate 3963.3_

"Our problem, gentlemen," Kirk detailed in a business-like tone, arms folded on the borrowed table before him, "is no longer one of what will happen when we take Moriarty back to his own time."

Four days had passed since the death of the man who had caused the trouble in the first place, and in them Sherlock Holmes had made a nearly full recovery. He sat now opposite the Captain, legs crossed and one hand tapping an absent finger against his lips in a gesture of deep thought. The detective had, oddly enough, become quite fond of the blue Starfleet-issue tunic he had been given, claiming it was nearly as comfortable as one of his dressing-gowns, and so had remained in the outfit. Watson had quite emphatically declined, and after his clothing had returned from ship's laundry he had gratefully donned his own attire once more.

Now Holmes shifted, lowered his hand to speak. "Your 'Starfleet' cannot decide which is the greater danger now; carrying out your original plan to send him back and close down the anomaly at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls, chancing his reanimation by the Guardian, his retainment of his telepathic powers, and chancing being seen by Colonel Sebastian Moran at the Falls in question. Or simply burying him here, and leaving your timeline distorted by him for the last three years. Not knowing what plans he laid which may yet be in motion, and not knowing how many lives he took in his pursuit of war in your galaxy," he supplied.

The Captain nodded wearily. "They have asked me to present the best arguments in both directions to them later today, and that will sway their decision. You just basically outlined the risks for each quite nicely. We’ve been waiting to get both of your opinions on the entire situation, since Spock is still out."

Holmes nodded slowly. "Could you not wait for him to regain consciousness? Surely with Moriarty dead there is no rush to deal with this timeline-restoration?"

Kirk shook his head, a frown line forming between his sandy brows. "No, the _Enterprise_ has been ordered to the other side of the Gamma Binary system to lend our weight to a diplomatic dispute. War among three planets could be the result. We have to be underway by tomorrow morning at the latest. We don't have time to wait for Spock; and besides we…we still don't know if there will be any brain damage from what was done to him, or how long it will take him to recover fully. I’ve already diverted this mission from its original intent enough, the brass isn’t going to allow me to stall them any longer."

Watson, who had been silently listening to the conversations, did not miss the captain's stumbling over his words, and shot the man a sympathetic look. If the Vulcan felt anywhere near as weak and mentally drained as he did, even four days later, it would be some time before he were able to fully contribute to any sort of tactical briefing.

Kirk's eyes hardened for a moment, and he glanced around the table. "Scotty, any views?"

The Engineer frowned, unused to standing in for Spock and McCoy in these situations; fully capable, but unwilling to leave his still-recovering engines (frankly he could not see how his precious bairns were in any less critical condition than Starfleet’s mission, but he would never say so to the captain of course). "It does seem a bit too risky, Captain, to take the man back if there's a chance he could return from the grave like ye suspect he might," he declared at last. "One wrong move, and _pffft_ , there goes our timeline an' everything in it."

"I agree with the Chief Engineer," Holmes added soberly. "The chances of one wrong decision being made in those three years are simply too great to risk, and that is assuming the best case scenario in that Moriarty’s telepathic abilities do not reassert themselves or that the Portal does not reanimate him to his 1891 state. I am not unsympathetic toward your universe's loss of life due to Moriarty's machinations, Captain," he added when the expected protest rose, "but once we return through that Portal we must live those years over again; we do not get a second chance to rectify this. You must consider the fact that not only do you have to risk Moriarty making a wrong decision, but you must risk myself making one as well. Even a harmless one that I did not make before _could_ destroy your world as you know it, and reverse any good that has been done in the last week by your people."

The briefing room door swooshed open behind them. "I am of the same opinion, Captain, though that should not be surprising considering my ancestry," a quiet voice announced its presence without fanfare.

There was a small crash as the chair tipped over behind the Captain, causing even Holmes to smile politely behind his hand and Scotty to chuckle into his coffee. Watson sighed and settled back comfortably, as the aura of dark tension that had been swirling around Kirk for the last four days suddenly burst into a shower of golden sparks and then dissipated into a warm glow.

"Spock!" Kirk nearly had his First Officer by the arms before remembering himself just in time. His hands dropped hastily to his side, face turned upward, wreathed in smiles, toward the taller man. "When did you wake up – should you even be out of bed?"

The half-smile that was twinkling in the back of the Vulcan's dark eyes at the unrestrained joy in the human's face suddenly twisted into discomfort. "To be entirely accurate, Captain…"

 _"MCCOY TO CAPTAIN KIRK,"_ the intercom screeched loudly enough to make them all jump.

Kirk turned an accusatory look toward his subordinate. "You didn't."

"The doctor had other, far more critical, patients to attend," the Vulcan replied serenely. "I simply had no wish to disturb his work, especially as his methods require full concentration –"

"Oh, good grief…" A grin twitching at his mouth, the Captain reached for the comm-unit. "Sit down if you need to, Commander," he ordered, and depressed the switch. "Kirk to Sickbay. What is it, Doctor?" he asked innocently.

From the corner of his eye he perceived the English physician perceptively moving from the chair he'd occupied beside Kirk's own; obviously he could sense which was Spock's usual and withdrew from it.

 _"I've got a runaway Vulcan on the loose here, Captain,"_ the irate CMO growled. _"Got Chapel to bring him 'round and then skedaddled before she had a chance to tell me, blasted stubborn no-good mule-headed –"_ Kirk glared at his First, who only blinked placidly back at him. Holmes was studiously peering at an invisible stain on the table, and the Doctor and Scott trying desperately not to laugh and give the show away. _"He's probably headed your direction, Jim,"_ the physician groused, acid dripping from the tone to eat its way through the comm-system. _"Has the knowledge of a hundred planets in that walking database of his, and too gosh-darned stupid to know he's gonna collapse if he's not careful!"_  
  
Kirk took his finger off the switch and folded his arms sternly.

"Captain, I assure you I am fully functional," came the cool reply, accompanied by the twist of an eyebrow for emphasis.

"I believe that much, but _for how long_ is my question," he retorted sternly, knowing his Vulcan better than anyone else, including his medical staff.

The closest twitch the First Officer ever came to a scowl flitted across the angular features. "Approximately two hours," he finally admitted without expression, knowing prevarication would only serve to exacerbate the Captain's protective proclivities.

 _"Jim, are ya still there?"_ McCoy was demanding crossly.

He banged the switch. "I'm here, Bones."

_"I said he's probably heading for your briefing, the stubborn fool."_

Golden eyes met dark brown for a moment, one pleading silently and one weighing the consequences – Watson could practically _feel_ the unheard exchange. Then the Captain turned back to the comm-unit.

Covering his eyes firmly with one hand, he grinned and spoke. "If I see him, I'll be sure to tell you, Bones."

_"You'd better, or I'll make you regret it next time you want a headache pill!"_

"Temper, temper, Doctor. Kirk out."

Scott's snickering was muffled by his coffee. "Ye know he's gonna murder ye when he discovers your shenanigans, Captain."

"There’s been enough killing around here for one week," Kirk replied tartly, before resuming his seat and shooting his First Officer a surreptitiously concerned look. "Are you sure about that two hours, Mr. Spock?"

"As it is an approximation, Captain, I can only be certain about the _approximation_ , not the two-hour period of time estimated," the Vulcan pointed out with slight smugness.

Kirk's smile overshadowed the worry the Doctor could sense hovering nearby at all times. "Then I will bow to your superior judgment, Mr. Spock, regarding your state of health."

"Thank you, Captain."

"In that case," Kirk continued, his face sobering on the instant at the return to business after the wonderfully pleasant lull, "we need to make a decision, gentlemen. I will hear both sides of the equation, and present our case to Starfleet at 1400 hours."


	44. Chapter Forty-Four

**_Chapter Forty-Four_ **

_U.S.S. Enterprise, in stable orbit over Aeternus_   
_Stardate 3958.7_

"That tears it, then," McCoy muttered as the transmission from Starfleet ended. He glanced around the table, noting the increasingly gray complexion of the First Officer and knowing the Vulcan's iron-clad endurance was fast approaching an embarrassing low. "Mr. Spock, I believe you and I have an appointment in Sickbay." He received a dark look, and waggled a finger in the other's direction. "Unless you'd prefer I send Nurse Chapel down to escort you, on an anti-grav gurney?" he added wickedly.

"That will not be necessary, Doctor, thank you," the Vulcan answered regally as he stood and moved toward the door. "If you will excuse me, Captain?"

Kirk's eyes, troubled and tense, had been staring at the viewer since the transmission ended, but at the gentle inquiry he jerked back to reality and flicked a glance upward in concern. Still, he would never embarrass his First by any public display. "Of course, Mr. Spock. And go easy on the Med staff, will you? It's…been a rough few days. For all of us."

The stern features softened visibly, no doubt due to the Vulcan's waning strength. "Understood."

"At least it'll be MY Sickbay you're gonna be cluttering up this time," McCoy jibed as they exited, though neither Spock nor the occupants of the room were oblivious to the arm that hovered behind the Vulcan's back in case of needed support. "And so help me, if you sneak out again like you did this morning I'll have you on more medication than you can shake a stick at."

"Doctor, where exactly would you expect me to locate such a terrestrial object aboard a starship?"

" _I'll_ tell you where you can locate it, you can pull it –"

The Captain grinned, relaxing slightly as the doors shut on the familiar exchange, and then looked over at the two Englishmen. "You two holding up okay?" he asked kindly.

Holmes nodded and glanced at the Doctor, who only looked intensely relieved. "I must confess, Captain, that I am thankful the affair is over – and that I need not return to my own time to live three years over after once more being forced to dispose of Professor Moriarty."

Watson shivered perceptibly at the name, earning a flicker of concern from the detective. "I will admit I am in entire agreement with your Starfleet, Captain Kirk," the Doctor added. "The risk was simply too high in your original plans. What that man was capable of?" He shuddered, and left the sentence unfinished.

Kirk nodded, standing to his feet. "I don't like it," he confessed briskly, "just leaving the damage he did in our time – but I agree that this was the best way to cut our losses without a greater gamble." The man's features darkened for a moment, remembering and seeing things that could age a man far beyond his time. Duty was a terrible mistress, and a ruthless one.

Watson closed his eyes in silent sympathy to the inner turmoil written across the captain's face. But a moment later, the conflict cleared, and he turned the famous diplomatic charm on to his two guests.

"We'd like to give you a proper send-off, and a dinner later tonight before we have to take you back in the early morning, Mr. Holmes, Doctor," he said with apparent cheerfulness, though it rang hollow through the exhaustion evident in every line of his face. "If you'd return to your quarters for an hour or so to change, I'll stop by Sickbay and see if I can get McCoy to spring Mr. Spock tonight around 1900 hours. If that's agreeable?"

"Quite agreeable, Captain," Holmes answered for both of them.

"Mr. Holmes, if the Doctor doesn't mind," here Kirk nodded to the physician, "I'd like to have a chat with you. About your actions in this mission." The tone, while pleasant, brooked no argument, even to a civilian.

Holmes first glanced at the doctor, who nodded understandingly. "Very well, Captain."

"Then walk with me," Kirk directed, gesturing for the Englishman to precede him out of the briefing room. "Doctor, can you find your way back alone?"

"If you've no objections, I should prefer to speak with your Mr. Spock, Captain," Watson answered quietly. "I have not had an opportunity to properly thank him for what he did on my behalf."

The Captain's tense features softened slightly. "I'll bet bringing him back from that coma was thanks enough, Doctor, but you don't need my permission to go see him. Just obey McCoy's orders about how long you stay, all right?"

"Well, naturally!" the physician sniffed, properly indignant.

Kirk chuckled and followed the Englishmen out the doors.

* * *

By this time, I was not at all shocked to enter the _Enterprise_ 's sickbay to the engaging sounds of Dr. McCoy all but bellowing at his First Officer.

Calling Mr. Spock a 'hobgoblin' was slightly in poor taste, in my opinion, though from the longsuffering look the First Officer shot me upon my entrance it was nothing new to him. And he gave as good as he got, too; reminding McCoy that he apparently had forgotten his mask, beads, and rain-stick in the outer ward was highly uncalled-for.

Still, obviously this was a tradition of sorts, similar to my continual arguments with Holmes about proper eating habits, and seemed to be a way of venting emotion without making it appear to others that that was being done. McCoy muttered something that would be considered slightly crude in _any_ century and stomped his way over to me, leaving Mr. Spock looking far too smugly after him.

I raised a questioning eyebrow, not daring to voice an inquiry while he was in that state, and received a glare for my efforts. "Go ahead and talk to him, Watson," he growled. " _I'm_ going to go try to locate my sanity."

"Very well?" I replied uncertainly, glancing back toward the bed. The Vulcan's eyes had closed, though he remained propped up upon a stack of pillows; perhaps I should return some other time?

"It's all right," McCoy murmured in my ear before leaving, "just watch that stress indicator, second to the left. If it rises into the red zone then cut it short, okay? There's still quite a bit of unhealed trauma; he's not recovered by any stretch but derned if he doesn't want people to think he is. Jim would have a royal fit if he knew how weak he really is."

I nodded in understanding, for my own head still pounded occasionally upon remembering what had happened to my mind nearly five days previously; I could only imagine what torture Moriarty had put this man through before I had arrived on the scene. I shuddered and firmly pushed away the remembrance of the screaming I had overheard before the confrontation, but the echoes still lingered in some part of my mind, hiding in the shadows of my memory.

Tamping down on a shiver, for I knew the Vulcan could sense my unease as I'd no idea how to conceal my feelings, I moved closer to the bed and took the chair the Captain had left there an hour or so ago, when we'd broken to rest between the briefing and the Captain's communications to his authorities.

The dark eyes opened at my approach. "Doctor," he greeted me calmly. "Are you well?"

I nodded, suddenly shy in the intimidating presence of this remarkable man. "Yes, thanks to you, sir. Doctor McCoy informs me that there is no lasting damage; you apparently protected me from the worst of the danger."

The frown lines between the dark eyebrows relaxed slightly; a gesture of relief, I guessed, as he would never admit to such openly. "That was my intention. I am…gratified, to know I was successful."

I could not repress a shudder at the memory of that horrible day, and saw the intense gaze watching me with empathy. "Doctor," my companion began, and I wondered at the gentleness of his voice for such a being as professed to not feel emotion; obviously he did, simply did not succumb to its control, "I believe, if my own perceptions are to be trusted and Dr. McCoy's medical views are to be, which I admit is somewhat less credible, then you were instrumental in bringing my mind to a more peaceful state, to enable the healing process to begin."

I nodded uncomfortably. "I am…not certain what I did, but I believe that is correct."

I saw a spark of warmth in the austere features. "It is a feat that usually requires the efforts of a Vulcan healer or an exceedingly powerful empathic one, Doctor. I am surprised that you were able to manage it, especially without causing harm to yourself, though I know that risk was a distinct possibility and you knew of it. And…I am grateful to you."

Somehow I gathered the impression that his race did not express thanks very readily, and so the half-hesitant words made it all the more warming to my uneasy mind. "I could do no less for one who protected my mind from that…monster, at such expense to his own," I answered softly, and saw again that very slight not-really-a-smile that I'd seen him give to the Captain this morning when he surprised the man in the briefing room.

McCoy chose that moment to come puttering back into the cubicle, muttering about heaven only knew what. "All right, all right, if you're both done with the mutual admiration society then this Vulcan needs some rest," he growled, shooing me away from the bed with a med-scanner.

"Doctor, I assure you that –"

The physician folded his arms definitively. "I know the Captain's gonna want you tonight for a send-off dinner or whatever, Mr. Spock, and if you don't remain in that bed until then I am not letting you out of it until tomorrow morning. And _you_ can explain that to Jim."

The closest thing to a huff I had ever seen from the stoic Vulcan passed painfully through compressed lips, but he put up no further argument. "I concede, Doctor."

From the shock on McCoy's face, I gathered that such easy compliance was anything but typical, and lost no time in following the CMO out so that the injured man could rest. I had wished to speak more of my mind and heart for Mr. Spock's sacrifice, but had realized upon the inception of our conversation that such sentiment would only serve to make him uncomfortable.

However, I knew the man could sense emotions, and I hoped that what he had perceived would speak louder than words could.

* * *

"What is this place?" Holmes asked curiously as the doors opened.

"The forward Observation Deck," the Captain replied, entering the dimly-lit room. Seeing it was unoccupied, he punched his Captain's lock code into the keypad by the door, indicating the need for privacy. "Spock and I come here to talk, sometimes, when we need to get away from everything for a while. It's incredible, isn't it?"

The Englishman was strangely silent, and Kirk turned to see the man staring wide-eyed at the starry expanse seen through the enormous windows in the room. Far below the purple-grey planet Aeternus kept pace with their orbit, hanging by nothing in a sky full of shimmering pinpoints of diversely-hued light, and to their far right the ship _Dracone_ hovered, commanded for the moment by Scotty and a skeleton crew. Smaller pulsating lights indicated the presence of the science vessel and the _Potomac_ , within call if the _Enterprise_ needed them.

"I never get tired of seeing space through these windows," Kirk said softly, following the detective over to the largest of them.

"I…I can well see why, Captain," came the low reply, breathless with surprise and delight. "It is enough to make any man wish to join your Starfleet, to be able to see such things on a daily basis. One feels quite small, of a sudden."

The tone was full of wistful wonder, and for the first time since this nightmare of a mission began the captain finally felt more than intimidation and annoyance with the man standing beside him. "I've never wanted to do anything else than captain a starship," he agreed quietly. "And I hope I never will."

"Your ship means a good deal to you, that much was evident from that first day in Baker Street. I can see why, now," Holmes remarked after a peaceful pause. "I was somewhat unable to understand your attitudes before, Captain, if I may be quite frank."

"Of course," Kirk agreed affably, removing himself from the window to a nearby seat. "A captain's first duty, and his first love, is to his ship. All else is secondary, and I will not apologize for my actions during a mission."

"And how do you balance your duty between your ship and your ship _mates,_ in such a mission as this?" the detective inquired, with distressingly accurate perception.

For the moment unable to formulate an answer, especially after the events of the last week, the younger man was silent while he regained control over his whirling thoughts. At last he sighed and settled back in the plush chair. "When someone discovers the secret to that, they need to let me know. I can't always explain my decisions…any more than you can explain how you were willing to leave the _Dracone_ with Moriarty, saying goodbye to your doctor friend and believing you wouldn't see him for three more years."

That had hit home, he could see, for the Englishman blanched slightly at the sight of his innermost feelings being so brought into the open. Kirk smiled inwardly, seeing the pre-Vulcan distaste of all things embarrassing to logic, and let the silence wrap around them for a while.

“I am not a fool, Holmes. I’ve reviewed the Sickbay tapes and heard your goodbye to him. You fully intended to execute Moriarty, then take him back through the Portal. I assume you researched the programming of the Guardian’s usage to the same extent you did our Transporter systems, and were prepared to use it to accompany him back to 1891. What would you have done had you forgotten about us?”

“There is a failsafe built into what your Portal terms a slipstream, which could bypass that in a vocal command.”

Kirk snorts. “Scotty was right about you. I hope we didn’t give you clearance to see any other schematics aboard.”

“I have always been a fast study, Captain.”

“And what did you intend to do about the anomaly?”

Holmes shifted uneasily. “I did not suppose the anomaly would be an issue, if the man were dead when he fell, Kirk,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. "I believed it to be the lesser of two very immediate evils."

“And if the Guardian reanimated him?”

“So much the better; events would play out precisely as they did the first time. Yet this time, I would be better prepared. He would not have survived to terrorize your century, of that you may be sure.”

“Hmm.”

Finally, after an awkward silence, Holmes settled back on the seat facing the Captain, leaned back and crossed his ankles expectantly. "I suppose I am in for a dressing-down for my hasty conduct in this matter?"

The Captain half-smiled. "No, that's not why I asked to speak with you; you actually saved me from having to execute the man and for that I suppose I should thank you." Hesitating a moment, Kirk glanced down at his hands before meeting the unnerving grey gaze again. "I really wanted to make sure you are all right with all of this."

"All right?"

"Holmes, you've killed a man in cold blood, whatever honorable label you want to put on it," Kirk said matter-of-factly. "That does something to you inside. I should know," he added in an almost-whisper.

He nearly regretted the clinical tone when the Englishman's eyes clenched shut suddenly, though he gave no further outward manifestation of the turmoil within. When he spoke finally, it was with obvious pain. "I am aware of my actions, Captain."

The Captain leaned forward, hands clasped before him and elbows on his knees. "The taking of life is almost never excusable," he continued gently. "But there are occasions when it must be done, for the good of many – for the protection of many."

"I have gathered you speak from experience, Captain Kirk," the detective sighed, opening a pained set of eyes to fasten upon the other man's features.

The Captain nodded, a sad frown creasing the thin lines around his mouth. "Let me tell you about the _Enterprise_ 's shakedown cruise, Mr. Holmes."


	45. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And so the madness ends. I'd originally left it open to a potential sequel, but later decided I liked it best as-is. However, if anyone else is so inclined to continue the saga, you have my blessing. Thank you for reading!

**_Epilogue_ **

_Planet Aeternus, Surface_   
_Stardate 3959.3_

"That, I will admit, is one thing I most certainly will not miss regarding this century," came the disgusted mumble of the English physician as they materialized on the surface of Aeternus.

Sherlock Holmes only grinned indulgently at him, and cast a curious eye skyward as if to take one final look at the _Enterprise_. Scott had been forced to beam them down and then retreat for the duration of about a half-hour, due to temporal disturbances growing worse and tossing the already-crippled ship about more than she could take at the moment; even her plasma trail was no longer visible after a moment.

The Captain was already conversing with the head Federation scientist, gesturing toward the Portal as he spoke. The silence of impending departure fell heavily in his absence, until the shrill whirring of McCoy's tricorder broke the silence.

"Doctor, do you mind?"

The CMO ignored the First Officer's protests, batting away the remonstrating hand but careful to touch only the blue sleeve. "You look like one more gust of wind'll blow you halfway to this planet's equator, Spock."

He received an exasperated look, or as close as a Vulcan could come to one. "I am perfectly in control of both my mind and my surroundings, Doctor, and have no need of your mothering."

"You might as well give up, Mr. Spock," Holmes interjected sagely, stabbing a finger at Watson. "If he is anything like his Victorian counterpart he will worry himself into a sickbed over trifles."

"What happened up there was no trifle," Watson replied, and the Vulcan shot him a look of complete understanding. "I shall be very glad to not remember that upon our return."

"That brings up the point, for we never did settle it – how much of this _will_ we remember?" Holmes asked. "If memory reverts, as you say, when we pass through the Portal into a time in our pasts, what will happen if this Guardian places us, say, three or four days into our own futures? Will we remember everything?"

"That's part of what we beamed down here to talk about, Mr. Holmes," Kirk added his voice to the conversation as he returned, hearing the last sentence. "We need to…explain a few things to you both."

"You are worried that we may somehow recall things about our visit here, and that that knowledge could change our future actions," Holmes supplied, blinking in wonder as the wind blew a peculiar swirling cloud of purplish dust by their little group.

"Exactly." The Captain shifted uneasily, and cast a quick glance at his First Officer. Spock held the look for a long moment, raised an eyebrow, and then nodded almost imperceptibly.

" _You know_ I hate it when you two have conversations without letting the rest of us in on them," McCoy grunted irritably, accenting the words with an angry snap of closing tricorder.

A thin smile tweaked Kirk's lips, and the lines in his forehead softened. "Sorry, Bones. Mr. Holmes, Doctor, we must have the Guardian replace you in the week where you disappeared."

"If you return prior to our arrival, our arrival simply will never happen in your slipstream memory," Spock explained further. "If after our arrival, then you will most likely retain all memories of your time spent here. We cannot allow that."

Watson looked vaguely alarmed, and the Captain held up a placating hand, indicating he should let the Vulcan finish.

Spock continued. "While you both are obviously trustworthy, you can still appreciate the risks we would all be taking in permitting you both to return with full knowledge of what has happened here. We cannot permit that to happen, and therefore you will be returned to your time period just prior to our arrival. You may possibly lose a few minutes or hours of your lives; that cannot be helped. The Portal will be as precise as possible, likely reverting the timestream to a period during sleep. You may experience a sense of _déjà vu_ , but nothing more."

"And you won't remember reliving the days, anyhow," McCoy reminded them more gently. "You'll never know anything was different, and you won't remember Moriarty here, or what he did, or how he died, or anything else that happened here. It's probably best that way."

"Then," Holmes frowned, his eyes contracting intensely, "then by that strain of reasoning this means that we will not remember anything of our time here. We will not remember any of you, for you will not come to Baker Street on that morning in the near future, in our memories."

Kirk smiled, a bit sadly. "Yes, that's right. We'll remember you, of course – but you won't remember anything about us. It will be as if this never happened for you."

Open dismay flooded the English doctor's face, and even Holmes looked considerably upset by the realization. "But I for one want to remember," Watson murmured, casting a helpless look at McCoy. "To go through all this, and not remember it?”

The CMO winced; common enemies make quick friends, and in the week the Englishmen had spent aboard ship they had all become quite close. He for one didn't want to see the two leave and he'd bet his last bottle of Saurian brandy that even Spock didn't like the idea of never seeing them again (not that he'd ever admit it). "It can't be done, Watson. There's no way to let you remember, and we can't give you some sort of record of the case because, well, you know what could happen if it fell into the wrong hands."

Again Kirk glanced at his First, and Holmes's sharp eyes did not miss the slight nod and communication that seemed to pass between them. "Captain?"

"Actually…there is one way in which you might be able to remember us, but not our technology – people, not events," the Vulcan replied slowly.

McCoy blinked. "Do what now?"

Spock inclined his head, and took a step closer to Holmes. "The mental abilities and capabilities of my race do not surprise you, understandably," he began, and the detective nodded readily. "Then you may possibly find it easier to believe that we have some minor ability to…not _alter_ memory patterns in others' minds, in those exact terms, but more to control those patterns, guide them into the channels we choose."

Watson's eyes grew wide. "Isn't that…dangerous?"

"Only if done without consent," Spock reassured him. "Normally the technique is only used in small children: to aid them in remembering their very young training, or to forget non-Vulcan behaviors." The dark eyes closed for a moment, and from the corner of his vision Holmes saw Kirk step forward, a dangerous and worried frown forming upon his face. But a moment later the Vulcan continued, looking to Watson to include him in the conversation. "To use the technique on an adult takes slightly more concentration but is in no way dangerous, nor is it invasive under usual uses. It is not a mind-joining, merely a channeling of thought patterns."

The Englishmen looked unconvinced, but Kirk suddenly entered the conversation. "He's right, Watson," the captain said quietly. "It's not in any way…disturbing, I can testify to that."

Holmes shot him a pointed look of skepticism, and after a quick glance at the increasingly uncomfortable First Officer Kirk gestured for him to continue.

"The Captain was plagued by an unpleasant dream of extreme vividness, for several nights running, in the past," Spock explained.

"The last time we used this Portal," Kirk murmured, glancing up at his silent CMO, who moved closer to him with a nod of empathic sadness. "He helped me forget the dreams and what happened in them, every night for eight nights running…and they finally went away."

Both Victorians were obviously too well-mannered to ask further questions, for which they were all grateful. Holmes cleared his throat awkwardly to break the silence. "Then what exactly are you suggesting by all of this, Captain, Mr. Spock?"

"I could, if you consented, alter your memory patterns of these events," the Vulcan explained slowly, and with painstaking care that the humans would fully understand before consenting. "You would remember us as past clients, so to speak, if we were to return to your time period and visit you again."

"You would do that?" Watson asked eagerly, eyes alight.

"I dunno about you, but I've got shore leave comin' to me in about five months, and the 'Fleet owes us one for this mess," McCoy drawled from behind the more sober group. "Wouldn't mind spendin' a week or so in London goin' to ancient medical lectures."

The Captain grinned. "You bet we'd come back, if and when we could."

"And if we did," Spock continued patiently, as if the emotional humans had never interrupted, and no that was not a minute eye-roll, "you would then remember us, and believe instinctively whatever story we chose to tell you at that time – but you would remember nothing of this mission save innocuous events and conversations; nothing of our technology, nor would you feel the compulsion to ask questions or seek further information about us. The knowledge would be…dormant, would be your closest approximation, in your minds until we appeared again in your timeline."

"Positively fascinating," Holmes muttered, tapping a thoughtful finger against his thin lips.

"Oh, Lord, and here I thought one of 'em was bad enough," McCoy snorted, while trying not to laugh at Spock's expression.

The detective's head raised, and he cocked a quizzical eye at his companion. Watson looked highly uneasy, but slowly nodded. "I would prefer to not completely forget you – any of you," he said pensively. "We owe you all too much for that."

"That condition, Doctor, is mutual," Spock replied solemnly.

"Will it be painful at all?"

"Not in the least, Doctor."

"Wait a second," Kirk interjected quickly, looking worried. "Spock, you aren't even up to half mental strength yet according to McCoy – can you handle this so soon?"

"Affirmative, Captain." A quick nod, and the look held for a minute as the human glared, searching the austere features for the truth. "I am able, sir."

"I don't like it, Jim," McCoy said sharply.

"Doctor, your preferences have little bearing on the matter at hand. And, if it will reassure your tendency to exaggeration, I will promise you that this ability takes very little mental energy; it is by no means a process of the depth of mind-joining."

"I'll be the judge of that," the physician growled, unsheathing his tricorder with all the ferocity of a duellist pulling a weapon.

Kirk cast one last dubious look toward his First, but finally gave a curt nod of consent. "Be quick about it, Mr. Spock," he ordered, folding his arms and going to stand by McCoy, who was fiddling with the instrument and swearing under his breath about 'fool Vulcans.'

Holmes stepped forward, and cocked an eyebrow at his future descendent. "I shall go first," he declared with an air of finality.

Amusement and total understanding glinted in the Vulcan's eyes. "The process is entirely harmless; you will not feel my presence at all, Mr. Holmes."

"Be that as it may, I still would prefer to be the first."

"Understood," was the quiet reply. "You must clear your mind, and endeavor to think of nothing at all…"

* * *

"You've got exactly six minutes before the cycle reaches their time period in the week that matches those calculations of Mr. Spock's, Captain Kirk," the scientist informed them, as they watched the mists of time swirl through the centuries in the gateway of the Guardian.

"Thanks. Well, gentlemen, this is it, I'm afraid. We're charted to be back this way in about six months, and we'll hop back and see you if we can," Kirk said with a smile, holding out a hand to first Holmes and then the Doctor. The _Enterprise_ likely would not be permitted any further contact with the Guardian, but it would be a parting comfort to the Englishmen who had risked so much for a universe not their own. "We'll care for Moriarty's body. He will be buried in space with the same courtesy as any other prisoner of war would be," he added in a quiet undertone to the detective, and received a grateful nod.

"Do, please, return and see us," Watson replied, answering with a firm shake and then turning to their CMO, who was shuffling awkwardly. McCoy hated goodbyes even under normal circumstances, and this was anything but. "It has been a pleasure to work with you, Doctor McCoy; I wish I had more time to learn more, or the opportunity to take your knowledge back with me."

The physician grinned companionably at him, but quieted with a more sober tone of voice when he spoke. "You'll have to just be content knowing that someday most of the diseases you know will be totally obliterated, Watson. It has to be that way for now, but don’t lose hope."

The Englishman nodded somberly, a sad light guiding his eyes into the distance for a brief instant. "I shall not."

"Oh, I almost forgot," the physician added suddenly, groping in his pocket and coming up with a metallic object. "Your stethoscope," he continued with a smile, offering the instrument back to the man.

Watson smiled in return. "Keep it; I have others. Unless it will change history somehow?" he added with a good-natured laugh.

"Only in that for the next five days the Doctor will be so enraptured with his new plaything that he leaves the rest of the crew complement in peace for the first time since his arrival aboard the _Enterprise_ ," Spock intoned dryly.

Kirk hid his laughter behind a hand as the physician lit into his Vulcan friend with the latest insult of choice, and turned to Holmes. "I probably should apologize, for my initial attitude toward you," he said lightly.

"But you are the Captain of a star-ship and as such apologise to no man, eh?" Grey eyes twinkled in amusement as the other blushed slightly. "You were within your rights, Captain Kirk, and I too wish we had spent more time getting to know one another better. Possibly we could have more in common than meets the eye. Mr. Spock," the detective added as the First Officer stepped slowly closer to them. "I am pleased to discover that there is a race in our future who regards logic as dearly as I."

The Vulcan inclined his head in respectful thanks. "Your legacy is a long and impressive one, sir." He raised one hand in the Vulcan salute. "Because we are all aware that you shall live long, and prosper," and there was the slight not-really-smile again the detective had noticed before, "I shall follow the human traditions of your day and heritage and say, _Au revoir_."

Kirk shot a surprised eye in his direction at the French, but then remembered that Holmes's file had indicated French ancestry. "Good luck, Holmes, Doctor," he added his sincere wish to his First's, and nodded a last farewell to the English doctor, who had come to his friend's side. "One minute, thirty seconds until return, gentlemen."

Watson stood, somewhat hesitantly, and finally looked up at the silent Vulcan. "I must thank you again, Mr. Spock," he said after a few moments.

"And I you, Doctor," was the kind reply.

"One minute," Kirk called from in front of the Guardian, eyes on the countdown showing on McCoy's tricorder screen. The Englishmen turned to leave.

"Doctor Watson."

Watson paused and turned back, Holmes hesitating close behind. "Yes?"

The Vulcan stood at attention, looking intently at the Englishman, for a long moment. "Doctor, you are aware that in the course of this mission I have seen into your mind."

A wary look. "And?"

The cool voice warmed slightly. "I know your deepest fear, Doctor – and you need not hold to that any longer. You both will, if you remain as you are to and for each other, lead long and fulfilling lives. There will be no more tragedy in your life, Doctor."

A look of wonder filled the hazel eyes, and they blinked for a moment in surprise. Then, "Thank you, Mr. Spock," the physician answered softly, and he nodded once.

"Time, gentlemen – thirty seconds. You must go back through together," Kirk reminded them briskly, indicating the Portal. "Goodbye, and good luck – and perhaps we'll see you on the other side sometime in your future," he added with a grin.

"Make sure there's a decent lecture in town when I visit, Watson," McCoy called cheerfully, waving at the two men as they nervously prepared to re-enter their own time.

"We shall not soon forget you, Captain, thanks to your Mr. Spock," Holmes answered with a satisfied smile. "Goodbye, gentlemen."

"Five…four…three…" the Vulcan intoned the seconds, lifting a hand in a final farewell. "…two, and _now_ , sir."

An instant later, only the wind whistling around the massive ruins broke the silence. Then the Guardian shimmered, its deep intonation ringing across the sands. "The Travelers have returned to their own time. The timeline has been restored."

"Then that's that," McCoy said quietly, looking down at the archaic stethoscope he held somewhat sadly.

Kirk clapped him on the shoulder lightly. "We all did what we had to, Bones. And maybe we'll be back, you know. Someday."

"Mmhm. Well now." The mood shaken off for the present in the light of more pressing matters, the physician folded his arms and gave their companion a calculating look. "That was some pretty emotional stuff, Spock. Sure you're 'fully functional', or are there a few loose wires up in that motherboard you call brain tissue?"

"If there are, Doctor, then it most certainly is due to your ineffective medical treatment of my case," came the aloof reply, though the Vulcan did look as if another strong gust of wind could blow him over, so pale had he become.

" _Scotty_ ," Kirk emphasized pointedly into his communicator to avoid an argument; much as the return to normality was good to hear, he really wasn't in the mood and Spock probably didn't have the strength. "Three to beam up as soon as you're in range again."

_"Aye, Captain. Two minutes, sir. And Nurse Chapel said t' tell Dr. McCoy that he's needed in Sickbay immediately soon as he's aboard."_

"Tell her Mr. Spock and I will report there at once," the physician called into the communicator and smirked at the dismay evident on the First Officer's face.

"Doctor, I –"

"Spock," Kirk remonstrated quietly, eyes worriedly fixed on the slightly-swaying figure but knowing better than to offer physical support unless absolutely necessary. "Just…don't argue with him this time, will you?"

The faint protest finally gave way under the weight of what had not been said. "Aye, sir," he replied quietly, and received a grateful look in return.

"Thanks."

 _"In range now, Captain,"_ came Scott's cheerful voice through the communicator.

Kirk glanced at his two companions, on either side of him out of long habit and already in place for transport. Casting one last glance at the now-silent Guardian of Forever, he smiled to himself.

"We're finished here, Scotty," he answered, and meant it at long last. "Beam us home."

* * *

_221B Baker Street, London, England  
June 2, 1894_

"I say, Watson, if you do not cease that infernal dawdling we shan't even make the intermission, much less the opening curtain!" Sherlock Holmes's voice rattled the painting hanging upon my bedroom wall as I finished straightening my clothing before the bureau looking-glass.

Resisting the urge to shout back something equally juvenile, I snapped on my cuff-links and after retrieving my gloves met him on the landing below. He tossed my silver-tipped stick at me (narrowly missing my left eye), plopped my hat upon my head, and then bolted down the stairs in a flapping tangle of coat-tails and long legs to ascertain the status of our cab.

I followed at a more sensible pace, though I could not but smile at his antics; both of us were unhealthily excited about the prospect of attending an afternoon concert together after over three years, and so exuberant had Holmes been about the matter I did not even mind that he had chosen the music, Mozart’s Symphony No 41. (1) An odd choice, as my friend usually preferred more string-heavy selections, but I was not so musically discerning and it made little difference to me.

Holmes was in fine form, and so positively chirpy that it bordered slightly on manic, but I was scarcely less enthusiastic myself and so did not mind his carolling out the cab window in the least.

We were nearly inside the theatre when I reached into my pockets to retrieve our tickets (ironically enough, purchased with money from my American sale of _The Adventure of the Final Problem_ ), and stopped, puzzled.

"Mmf." Holmes grunted as he was jostled into me by a passing couple decked in London's most expensive finery. "What is it, old fellow?” he asked, seeing my mystification.

"My stethoscope, Holmes - someone must have lifted it from my coat!" I exclaimed, scowling at the very idea. "I put it in my pocket this afternoon after seeing to that urchin down the street, the one who tripped and hit his head on the kerb; it's no longer here."

My friend shrugged in his easy, insufferable fashion, and threaded his arm companionably through mine. "Well, Doctor, with any luck, you shan't be needing it much in the near future," said he mysteriously, and smiled into the night with the air of a man well-satisfied with himself...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Commonly nicknamed The Jupiter Symphony


End file.
